were
united against him, that he asked himself if, one day, he would not
be led to obey them in spite of himself. Phillis, Nougarede, Madame
Cormier. Now, whence would come a new attack?

For several months he had enjoyed a complete security, which convinced
him that all danger was over forever. But all at once this danger burst
forth under such conditions that he must recognize that there could
never more be any security for him. To-day Madame Dammauville menaced
him; tomorrow it would be some one else. Who? He did not know. Every
one. And it was the anguish of his position to be condemned to live
hereafter in fear, and on the defensive, without repose, without
forgetfulness.

But it was not tomorrow about which he need be uneasy at this moment, it
was the present hour; that is to say, Madame Dammauville.

That she should say, with so much firmness at the sight of a single
portrait, that the man who drew the curtains was not Florentin, she must
have an excellent memory of the eyes; at the same time a resolute mind
and a decision in her ideas, which permitted her to affirm without
hesitation what she believed to be true.

If they should ever meet, she would recognize him, and recognizing him,
she would speak.

Would she be believed?

This was the decisive question, and from what he had heard of her, it
seemed that she would be.

Denials would not suffice. He did not go to Caffie's at a quarter past
five. Where was he at this moment? What witness could he call upon?
Caffie's wound was made by a hand skilled in killing, and this learned
hand was his, more even than that of a murderer. Every one knew that
his position at that moment was desperate, financially speaking; and,
suddenly, he paid his debts. Who would believe the Monte Carlo story?

One word, one little hint, from this Madame Dammauville and he was lost,
without defence, without possible struggles.

Truly, and fortunately, since she was paralyzed and confined to her bed,
he ran no risk of meeting her face to face at the corner of a street, or
at the house of an acquaintance, nor of hearing the cry of surprise that
she would not fail to give on recognizing him. But that was not enough
to make him sleep in an imprudent security on saying to himself that
this meeting was improbable. It was improbable, also, to admit that some
one was exactly opposite to Caffies window at the moment when he
drew the curtains; more improbable yet to believe that this fact