acked to pieces rather than allow a cry to escape him;
but he changed his tactics, and instead of attempting to parry the blows
as he had done before, he now only thought of gaining the door, inch by
inch.

He had almost reached it, not without suffering considerable injury,
when it suddenly opened, and a young man clad in black, with a smooth
shaven face, entered the shop, and sternly exclaimed: "Why! what's all
this?"

The sight of the newcomer seemed to stupefy Vantrasson. "Ah! it is you,
Monsieur Maumejan?" he faltered, with a crestfallen air. "It's nothing;
we were only in fun."

M. Maumejan seemed perfectly satisfied with this explanation; and in the
indifferent tone of a man who is delivering a message, the meaning of
which he scarcely understood, he said: "A person who knows that your
wife is in my employ requested me to ask you if you would be ready to
attend to that little matter she spoke of."

"Certainly. I was preparing for it a moment ago."

Chupin heard no more. He had hurried out, his clothes in disorder, and
himself not a little hurt; but his delight made him lose all thought of
his injuries. "That's M. Ferailleur," he muttered, "I'm sure of it, and
I'm going to prove it." So saying he hid himself in the doorway of a
vacant house a few paces distant from the Vantrassons', and waited.

Then as soon as M. Maumejan emerged from the Model Lodging House, he
followed him. The young man with the clean shaven face walked up the
Route d'Asnieres, turned to the right into the Route de la Revolte, and
at last paused before a house of humble aspect. At that moment Chupin
darted toward him, and softly called, "M'sieur Ferailleur!"

The young man turned instinctively. Then seeing his mistake, and feeling
that he had betrayed himself, he sprang upon Chupin, and caught him by
the wrists: "Scoundrel! who are you?" he exclaimed. "Who has hired you
to follow me! What do you want of me?"

"Not so fast, m'sieur! Don't be so rough! You hurt me. I'm sent by
Mademoiselle Marguerite!"

XVIII.

"O God! send Pascal to my aid," prayed Mademoiselle Marguerite, as she
left M. Fortunat's house. Now she understood the intrigue she had been
the victim of; but, instead of reassuring her the agent had frightened
her, by revealing the Marquis de Valorsay's desperate plight. She
realized what frenzied rage must fill this man's heart as he felt
himself gradually slipping from the heights of opulence, down into
the depth