r right hand and her daughter on her left; the other side
of the table had been destined for Martial and the two younger children.
Nicholas then drew from his pocket a long and wide Spanish knife, with a
horn handle and a trenchant blade. Contemplating this murderous weapon
with a sort of savage pleasure, he said to the widow:

"There's my bread-earner,--what an edge it has! Talking of bread,
mother, just hand me some of that beside you."

"And talking of knives, too," replied Calabash, "Francois has found
out--you know what--in the wood-pile!"

"What do you mean?" asked Nicholas, not understanding her.

"Why, he saw--one of the feet!"

"Phew!" whistled Nicholas; "what, of the man?"

"Yes," answered the widow, concisely, at the same time placing a large
slice of meat on her son's plate.

"That's droll enough," returned the young ruffian; "I'm sure the hole
was dug deep enough; but I suppose the ground has sunk in a good deal."

"It must all be thrown into the river to-night," said the widow.

"That is the surest way to get rid of further bother," said Nicholas.

"Yes," chimed in Calabash, "throw it in the river, with a heavy stone
fastened to it, with part of an old boat-chain."

"We are not quite such fools as that either," returned Nicholas, pouring
out for himself a brimming glass of wine. Then, holding the bottle up,
he said, addressing the widow: "Come, mother, let's touch glasses, and
drink to each other. You seem a cup too low, and it will cheer you up."

The widow drew back her glass, shook her head, and said to her son:

"Tell me of the man you met on the Quai de Billy."

"Why, this is it," said Nicholas, without ceasing to eat and drink:
"When I got to the landing-place, I fastened my boat, and went up the
steps of the quay as the clock was striking seven at the military
bakehouse at Chaillot. You could not see four yards before you, but I
walked up and down by the parapet wall for a quarter of an hour, when I
heard footsteps moving softly behind me. I stopped, and a man,
completely wrapped up in a mantle, approached me, coughing as he
advanced. As I paused, he paused; and all I could make out of him was
that his cloak hid his nose, and his hat fell over his eyes."

We will inform our readers that this mysterious personage was Jacques
Ferrand, the notary, who, anxious to get rid of Fleur-de-Marie, had,
that same morning, despatched Madame Seraphin to the Martials, whom he
hoped to find the read