been up here for a week seeing what I could do—”

“At the gaming-tables!”

“No, no, I give you my word that is over. I have been trying to raise—”

“How much!”

“Two hundred thousand francs,” said the young man, in a low voice.

“There are money-lenders enough in Paris,” remarked M. de Cadanet, dryly.

“But with the securities I can offer, their terms are ruinous. If I were to accept them, Poissy would have to go. Judge for yourself whether this would not break my mother’s heart.”

“I have not the honour of the acquaintance of Madame de Beaudrillart.”

Léon did not answer at once. He was framing a more direct appeal.

“The estate must right itself in time,” he said, hopefully, “and if I could induce you to take the matter into consideration, and to advance me the money—”

He paused. M. de Cadanet turned towards his writing-table, unlocked a drawer, and drew out a cheque-book.

“You said, I think, two hundred thousand!” he asked, beginning to fill it in.

“Two hundred thousand,” repeated the young man, joyfully, without an attempt to conceal the exultation with which he watched the proceeding. All had gone more easily than his most sanguine expectations had ventured to suggest, and he was amazed at his own folly in having hesitated to apply to his rich cousin, whose bark, after all, was worse than his bite. M. de Cadanet’s movements were deliberate in the extreme. He wrote a cheque, folded it, and sought for an envelope of the right size. This found, he proceeded to direct it. Léon smiled to himself. “An unnecessary formality,” he thought; “but I had better hold my tongue, and let him please himself as to his way of doing.” It seemed to him, however, that the moment had come when he might express his gratitude, and he was beginning to stammer a few words, when M. de Cadanet put up his hand.

“One moment, monsieur. Allow me to explain. Neither the honour of this visit nor the particulars with which you have favoured me have taken me by surprise. I have already given the affairs of Poissy my best consideration.”

Léon nodded cheerfully. This explained.

“And I have arrived at the conclusion that since the Beaudrillart family has reached the point indicated by you, it must be decreed that it should pass the remainder of its existence without a château. Heaven forbid that I should attempt to fight against fate!”

The scorn of his words stung like a lash. Léon, bewildered and astonished, turned white. He murmured something which the old count interrupted with a sudden outburst of passion.

“What, monsieur! You squander your birthright on miserable follies, you drag the name you profess to honour into the lowest depths, and then come to beg—yes, monsieur, I repeat it, to beg—from those whose advice you have scorned, and whose character you have calumniated! No. I give you my word—a word which, however strange it may appear to you, has never yet been broken—that, in whatever straits you find yourself, I will not so much as lift my little finger to help you, nor fling a penny to keep you from starving. Understand that, if you had become poor by honest misfortunes, I would have set you again on your legs. You have had your chance. I would not trust mere report, though to those who were acquainted with your habits it appeared only too probable. Close and searching inquiries have been made, and it is possible that I know more of your affairs than you know yourself—certainly more than you have permitted me to hear from you to-day.”

Léon sprang to his feet.

“Enough, monsieur!” he cried. “You have a right to refuse assistance, but none to insult me. If you have employed spies to search into my private affairs, you have taken an unwarrantable liberty, upon which you would not have ventured had you been of an age for me to retaliate. Much of what you say is incomprehensible to me; a little more might cause me to forget the respect due to your years.”

“Spare me theatrical language, monsieur; and, as you have forced yourself upon me, be good enough to listen to what I have to tell you. This letter contains an order for two hundred thousand francs.”

Against his will, the young man’s eyes turned greedily towards it.

“Are you not inclined to add to your accomplishments by robbery and murder?” sneered M. de Cadanet.

“If I had the chance, I should be glad to get hold of the money,” said the young man, lightly. His anger burned out as quickly as dry straw, and the other, who had not expected this frank answer, stared and went on:

“When I gave myself the annoyance of looking into your affairs, I resolved that, if you came out of the ordeal acquitted, I would apply the earn to their settlement; if you failed, it should go to—another person.”

Léon laughed. The count, who had not the young man’s command of temper, became furious.

“You laugh, monsieur! Let those laugh who win.”

“Exactly,” said M. de Beaudrillart, coolly. “And who wins? The admirable Charles?”

“Yes, monsieur!” thundered the count. “He whom you are pleased to sneer at as the admirable Charles, and who, if not a Beaudrillart, has shown himself to be what is better—an honourable man. You follow me?”

“Perfectly. You express yourself with unmistakable clearness. So Monsieur Charles is to have the money!”

“And will make a worthy use of it. He may find more follow.”

“I comprehend,” said Léon, still smiling. “Under the circumstances, you are doubtless anxious to despatch your letter to Monsieur Charles. Can I post it for you?”

It was M. de Cadanet’s turn to laugh—gratingly.

“Permit me to prefer a safer messenger. My cheque is payable to bearer.”

“Then I have the honour to wish you good-day.”

“Go. And understand, once for all, that should you apply to me again, you will not be admitted.”

“Do not fear, monsieur. The impression I take with me is not so agreeable that I should wish to renew it.”

And with this last word M. de Beaudrillart found himself outside the room.

He went slowly down-stairs, the smile still lingering mechanically on his lips, but something like despair in his heart. So far as he could see, but one way presented itself out of his troubles, and this would only affect himself, and leave his mother, whom he loved, with added misery in her heart. No misfortune would touch her, he knew, so nearly as his death, and if he had the cowardice to be ready to slip out of his troubles by self-murder, he had not the cruelty to inflict such anguish upon her. Besides, another reflection, not so amiable, restrained him. M. de Cadanet had hinted at coming gifts for M. Charles, and the thought had flashed upon him with the force of intuition that it was not improbable, should the mortgages be foreclosed, for the count to get hold of Poissy and present it to M. Charles. Now, without knowing all the mischief that he had worked, Léon hated M. Charles. His hate was not virulent, but it was impulsive; and although he had no proof, he strongly suspected who had brought an exaggerated report of his follies to M. de Cadanet’s ears. He might have retaliated, but that he would never stoop to such a course, and he reflected