Clotilde had been
entrapped and carried off, nor did she mention a word about her own
proceedings at St. Sulpice, but confined herself to informing the
marquis that Isidore had fled with Marguerite, and that she had left it
to M. de Crillon to follow up the fugitives, and endeavour to bring
Isidore to reason, and persuade him to return to Beaujardin.

The marquis was of course most indignant at so flagrant an act on the
part of his son, declaring that he would disinherit him and never see
him again; and Madame de Valricour returned home well satisfied with
her interview, to await, though not without some anxiety, such tidings
as she might receive from M. de Crillon in the course of a few days.

She had, however, scarcely left Beaujardin when some one else sought an
interview with the marquis. This was Monsieur Perigord, who, after
being admitted into his master's presence, began, with much agitation,
by imploring him to interfere in an affair of the most terrible
importance. The marquis, who was well acquainted with the excitable
disposition of his old _chef de cuisine_, supposed that some slight had
been put upon him by the inferior domestics, or perhaps even by M.
Boulederouloue himself, so he kindly told the old man that he would
take care to see him righted if he would only be calm and say what was
the matter.

"Calm, my master!" exclaimed Perigord, throwing himself at the feet of
his patron; "who could be calm when such dreadful things are happening?
Ah, monsieur, it is not for my poor self that I come to you; it is to
plead for my unhappy young master, who, if you do not take some steps,
will fall a victim to a most horrible scheme."

"Are you mad, Perigord?" said the marquis, somewhat irritated at such
an interference in his domestic affairs by a person of that kind.
"What silly nonsense is this?"

"It is no silly nonsense, monsieur. If you will but deign to listen to
me I can prove beyond doubt that a dreadful plot, of which you cannot
be aware, threatens not only poor Monsieur Isidore's happiness, but his
very life--that madame the baroness, before she came back from St.
Sulpice yesterday, sent off M. de Crillon with a _lettre de cachet_ to
Nantes, whither the young marquis has gone with his bride. Ah,
monsieur, those terrible _lettres de cachet_! You know, we all know,
what they mean. Alas, alas! my poor young master! He is lost if you
will not save him."

Just for a moment the marquis fancied th