es of the future; it needed a whole century, a minister
called Richelieu and a king called Louis the Fourteenth, to cicatrize
the wound made in France by Ravaillac's knife. Yes, Dubois was right,"
cried the duke, "and I must abandon this young man to human justice;
besides, it is not I who condemn him; the judges are there to decide;
and," added he, with animation, "have I not still the power to pardon."

And quieted by the thought of this royal prerogative, which he exercised
in the name of Louis XV., he signed the paper, and left the room to
finish dressing.

Ten minutes after the door opened softly, Dubois carefully looked in,
saw that the room was empty, approached the table near which the prince
had been seated, looked rapidly at the order, smiled on seeing the
signature, and folding it in four, placed it in his pocket, and left the
room with an air of great satisfaction.

CHAPTER XX.

BLOOD REVEALS ITSELF.

When Gaston returned from the Barriere de la Conference, and left his
room, he found La Jonquiere installed by the fireplace, and discussing a
bottle of wine which he had just uncorked.

"Well, chevalier," said he, as Gaston entered, "how do you like my room?
it is convenient, is it not? Sit down and taste this wine; it rivals the
best Rosseau. Do you drink Rosseau? No, they do not drink wine in
Bretagne; they drink cider or beer, I believe. I never could get
anything worth drinking there, except brandy."

Gaston did not reply, for he was so occupied that he had not even heard
what La Jonquiere said. He threw himself in an easy chair, with his hand
in his pocket, holding Helene's first letter.

"Where is she?" he asked himself; "this immense, unbounded Paris may
keep her from me forever. Oh! the difficulty is too great for a man
without power or experience!"

"Apropos," said La Jonquiere, who had followed the young man's ideas
easily, "there is a letter for you."

"From Bretagne?" asked the chevalier, trembling.

"No; from Paris. A beautiful writing--evidently a woman's."

"Where is it?" cried Gaston.

"Ask our host. When I came in he held it in his hands."

"Give it to me," cried Gaston, rushing into the common room.

"What does monsieur want?" asked Tapin, with his usual politeness.

"My letter."

"What letter?"

"The letter you received for me."

"Pardon, monsieur; I forgot it."

And he gave Gaston the letter.

"Poor imbecile!" said the false La Jonquiere, "and these idiots