seems destined
even to a more rapid apotheosis than that of the favored Morrel."

"You mean Joliette?" said the editor. "Who, in the name of all that is
mysterious and heroic, is this same Joliette? I have found it impossible
to discover, with all the means at the command of the press."

"And I, with all the means at the command of the Government. All we can
discover is this--that he is a man of about twenty-five; that he
enlisted at Marseilles, and in less than three years has risen from the
ranks to the command of a battalion. His career has been most
brilliant."

"And to whose favor does he owe his wonderful advancement, Beauchamp?"
asked the Deputy, laughing.

"To that of Marshal Bugeaud, Governor-General of Algeria."

"Ah!"

"Who has indulged him with an appointment in every forlorn hope!"

"Excellent!" cried the Count. "What more could a man resolved to be a
military immortal desire? Immortality the goal--two paths conduct to
it--each sure--death--life!--the former the shorter, and, perhaps, the
surer! But there is one name I never see in the war dispatches. Do you
ever meet with it, Messrs. editor and Secretary--I mean the name of our
brilliant friend, Albert de Morcerf? The rumor ran that, after the
disgrace and suicide of the Count, his father, he and his mother went
south, and he later to Africa."

"I have hardly seen the name of Morcerf in print since the paragraph
headed 'Yanina' in my paper, about which poor Albert was so anxious to
fight me."

"Nor I," said Debray. "But where now is Madame de Morcerf? Without
exception, she was the most splendid specimen of a woman I ever saw!"

"High praise, that!" cried the Count, laughing. "Who would suppose our
cold, calculating, ambitious, haughty, talented and opulent diplomat and
aristocrat had so much blood in his veins? When before was he known to
admire anything, male or female--but himself--or, at all events, to be
guilty of the bad taste of expressing that admiration?"

"Debray is right," replied the journalist, somewhat gravely. "Madame de
Morcerf was, indeed, a noble and dignified woman--accomplished, lovely,
dignified, amiable--"

"Stop!--stop!--in the name of all that's forbearing, be considerate of
my weak nerves! You, too, Beauchamp. Well, she must have been a paragon
to make the conquest of two of the most inveterate bachelors in all
Paris! But where is this marvel of excellence--pardon me, Beauchamp,"
perceiving that the journalist looke