d matted; his hands were
soiled and grimed with dirt; he was really the abject wretch whose rags
he wore.

Otto had begged to be allowed to accompany him; but the duke refused,
saying that the revolver which he would take with him would be
sufficient protection. He knew Otto well enough, however, to be certain
he would disobey him.

Ten o'clock was sounding when Mme. Blanche and Camille left the house,
and it did not take them five minutes to reach the Rue Taranne.

There was one _fiacre_ on the stand--one only.

They entered it and it drove away.

This circumstance drew from Martial an oath worthy of his costume. Then
he reflected that, since he knew where to find his wife, a slight delay
in finding a carriage did not matter.

He soon obtained one; and the coachman, thanks to a _pourboire_ of ten
francs, drove to the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers as fast as his horses
could go.

But the duke had scarcely set foot on the ground before he heard
the rumbling of another carriage which stopped abruptly at a little
distance.

"Otto is evidently following me," he thought.

And he started across the open space in the direction of the Poivriere.

Gloom and silence prevailed on every side, and were made still more
oppressive by a chill fog that heralded an approaching thaw. Martial
stumbled and slipped at almost every step upon the rough, snow-covered
ground.

It was not long before he could distinguish a dark mass in the midst
of the fog. It was the Poivriere. The light within filtered through the
heart-shaped openings in the blinds, looking at a distance like lurid
eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Could it really be possible that the Duchesse de Sairmeuse was there!

Martial cautiously approached the window, and clinging to the hinges of
one of the shutters, he lifted himself up so he could peer through the
opening.

Yes, his wife was indeed there in that vile den.

She and Camille were seated at a table before a large punch-bowl, and
in company with two ragged, leering scoundrels, and a soldier, quite
youthful in appearance.

In the centre of the room stood the Widow Chupin, with a small glass
in her hand, talking volubly and punctuating her sentences by copious
draughts of brandy.

The impression produced upon Martial was so terrible that his hold
relaxed and he dropped to the ground.

A ray of pity penetrated his soul, for he vaguely realized the frightful
suffering which had been the chastisement of t