rticles which Mme. Blanche used daily--her watch, her
purse, and several bunches of keys--were lying upon the dressing-table
and mantel.

Martial did not sit down. His self-possession was returning.

"No folly," he thought, "if I question her, I shall learn nothing. I
must be silent and watchful."

He was about to retire, when, on glancing about the room, his eyes fell
upon a large casket, inlaid with silver, which had belonged to his wife
ever since she was a young girl, and which accompanied her everywhere.

"That, doubtless, holds the solution of the mystery," he said to
himself.

It was one of those moments when a man obeys the dictates of passion
without pausing to reflect. He saw the keys upon the mantel; he seized
them, and endeavored to find one that would fit the lock of the casket.
The fourth key opened it. It was full of papers.

With feverish haste, Martial examined the contents. He had thrown
aside several unimportant letters, when he came to a bill that read as
follows:

"Search for the child of Madame de Sairmeuse. Expenses for the third
quarter of the year 18--."

Martial's brain reeled.

A child! His wife had a child!

He read on: "For services of two agents at Sairmeuse, ----. For expenses
attending my own journey, ----. Divers gratuities, ----. Etc., etc." The
total amounted to six thousand francs. The bill was signed "Chelteux."

With a sort of cold rage, Martial continued his examination of the
contents of the casket, and found a note written in a miserable hand,
that said: "Two thousand francs this evening, or I will tell the duke
the history of the affair at the Borderie." Then several more bills from
Chelteux; then a letter from Aunt Medea in which she spoke of prison
and of remorse. And finally, at the bottom of the casket, he found the
marriage-certificate of Marie-Anne Lacheneur and Maurice d'Escorval,
drawn up by the Cure of Vigano and signed by the old physician and
Corporal Bavois.

The truth was as clear as daylight.

Stunned, frozen with horror, Martial scarcely had strength to return the
letters to the casket and restore it to its place.

Then he tottered back to his own room, clinging to the walls for
support.

"It was she who murdered Marie-Anne," he murmured.

He was confounded, terror-stricken by the perfidy and baseness of
this woman who was his wife--by her criminal audacity, by her cool
calculation and assurance, by her marvellous powers of dissimulation.

H