five or six months old; it is only a
few years since M. de Chalusse, after a thousand vain attempts, at last
succeeded in finding her."

It was no longer on Pascal's account, but on his own, that Baron
Trigault listened with breathless attention. "How very strange," he
exclaimed, in default of something better to say. "How very strange!"

"Isn't it? It is as good as a novel."

"Would it be--indiscreet----"

"To inquire? Certainly not. The count told me the whole story, without
entering into particulars--you understand. When he was quite young, M.
de Chalusse became enamoured of a charming young lady, whose husband had
gone to tempt fortune in America. Being an honest woman, she resisted
the count's advances for awhile--a very little while; but in less than
a year after her husband's departure, she gave birth to a pretty little
daughter, Mademoiselle Marguerite. But then why had the husband gone to
America?"

"Yes," faltered the baron; "why--why, indeed?"

"Everything was progressing finely, when M. de Chalusse was in his turn
obliged to start for Germany, having been informed that a sister of his,
who had fled from the paternal roof with nobody knows who, had been seen
there. He had been absent some four months or so, when one morning the
post brought him a letter from his pretty mistress, who wrote: 'We are
lost! My husband is at Marseilles: he will be here to-morrow. Never
attempt to see me again. Fear everything from him. Farewell.' On
receiving this letter, M. de Chalusse flung himself into a postchaise,
and returned to Paris. He was determined, absolutely determined, to
have his daughter. But he arrived too late. On hearing of her husband's
return, the young wife had lost her head. She had but one thought--to
conceal her fault, at any cost; and one night, being completely
disguised, she left her child on a doorstep in the vicinity of the
central markets----"

The marquis suddenly paused in his story to exclaim: "Why, what is the
matter with you, my dear baron? What is the matter? Are you ill? Shall I
ring?"

The baron was as pale as if the last drop of blood had been drawn from
his veins, and there were dark purple circles about his eyes. Still,
on being questioned, he managed to answer in a choked voice, but not
without a terrible effort: "Nothing! It is nothing. A mere trifle! It
will be over in a moment. It IS over!" Still his limbs trembled so
much that he could not stand, and he sank on to a chair,