as I know myself, my dear count," he commenced
--"you who were my poor father's best friend, you who dandled me
upon your knees when I was a child, and who has never lost sight of
me."

"Which is to say, my boy, that I answer for you as for myself," put
in the old man. "But go on."

"I am twenty-six years old. My name is Yves-Marius-Genost de Tregars.
My family, which is one of the oldest of Brittany, is allied to all
the great families."

"Perfectly exact," remarked the old gentleman.

"Unfortunately, my fortune is not on a par with my nobility. When
my mother died, in 1856, my father, who worshiped her, could no
longer bear, in the intensity of his grief, to remain at the Chateau
de Tregars where he had spent his whole life. He came to Paris,
which he could well afford, since we were rich then, but
unfortunately, made acquaintances who soon inoculated him with the
fever of the age. They proved to him that he was mad to keep lands
which barely yielded him forty thousand francs a year, and which he
could easily sell for two millions; which amount, invested merely
at five per cent, would yield him an income of one hundred thousand
francs. He therefore sold every thing, except our patrimonial
homestead on the road from Quimper to Audierne, and rushed into
speculations. He was rather lucky at first. But he was too honest
and too loyal to be lucky long. An operation in which he became
interested early in 1869 turned out badly. His associates became
rich; but he, I know not how, was ruined, and came near being
compromised. He died of grief a month later."

The old soldier was nodding his assent.

"Very well, my boy," he said. "But you are too modest; and there's
a circumstance which you neglect. You had a right, when your father
became involved in these troubles, to claim and retain your mother's
fortune; that is, some thirty thousand francs a year. Not only you
did not do so; but you gave up every thing to his creditors. You
sold the domain of Tregars, except the old castle and its park, and
paid over the proceeds to them; so that, if your father did die
ruined, at least he did not owe a cent. And yet you knew, as well
as myself, that your father had been deceived and swindled by a lot
of scoundrels who drive their carriages now, and who, perhaps, if
the courts were applied to, might still be made to disgorge their
ill-gotten plunder."

Her head bent upon her tapestry, Mlle. Gilberte seemed to be w