r him. I was for
passing on with a brief word, when he stopped me.

"Have you heard the great news?" he asked. "No, of course you have
not. Gaston Cheverny has been found. I compute that he reached the
chateau of Capello this afternoon--probably at this very hour."

The earth began to rock under my feet, the heavens broke into long
waves of light, as if the oceans and a million voices were shouting in
my ear at once. In the midst of all this, Jacques Haret's cool,
musical voice continued:

"Yes. He should reach there about this time. And a tragedy may have
preceded him--Madame Cheverny may have driven a nail into the eye of
Count Bellegarde, as Jael did to Sisera, or cut off his head and put
it in a bag, as Judith did that of Holofernes. For Bellegarde--the
greatest fool alive--told me that on this date he meant to go to
Capello and make a formal offer of his hand to the supposed widow, and
by the blessing of God he hoped to own Capello. I have just come from
Brabant, you see. I advised Bellegarde to make his will and to repent
of his sins before going on such an errand, for Madame Cheverny has
the spirit of all the Kirkpatricks in her beautiful body, and is
dangerous when roused."

While Jacques Haret was speaking, I recovered my composure, although
my soul was in storm and tumult, but I could not ask one of the
thousand questions burning upon my lips. Then I saw a figure
approaching, hatless and unpowdered, and wrapped in a bed coverlet. It
was Count Saxe. He had not gone to sleep, and hearing through his open
window Jacques Haret's tale, had sprung from his bed and rushed into
the garden. Next to Francezka, Count Saxe, of all the world, wished
Gaston Cheverny to be found for reasons easily understood. He called
out as he stalked forward in his bed coverlet:

"Do you know anything else about it?"

"Nothing," replied Jacques, thrusting his hands in his pockets; "but
it has ruined Bellegarde's chances of living at Capello, the palace of
delights."

"And some one else has come back to Capello," I added. "Lisa, Peter
Embden's niece."

Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Jacques Haret show any shame at
the mention of the unfortunate girl's name, or of poor old Peter's.
Count Saxe, however, standing a little way off, and gesticulating in
his coverlet, cried loudly:

"Jacques Haret, you are the blackest villain, cheat, scoundrel, rogue
and rapscallion yet unhung. The jail yawns for you, the gallows yearns
for y