with a laugh that, if Charles was convicted of gambling, he would be ready with the excuse that he had gone there to watch himself. But Charles at Poissy! Charles a successor of the De Beaudrillarts! Léon ground his teeth, and felt that he must remain alive while a hope of baffling such a disaster was left.

Again he passed the little room of the concierge. André, who was something of a gourmand, was within at work upon cooking a fish, and looked up to salute M. Léon. In another moment the high green gates had closed behind the young baron, and he was walking along the street.

The sun was shining. Paris—the Paris he loved, the Paris which had proved herself so fatal a rival to Poissy—had never looked more smiling; there was neither fog nor chill in the air; but everywhere bright keen colours, people chatting, shops brightly dressed, women in their white caps, carriages rolling along. Gay, yet with a touch of hardness. For the first time in his life Léon became conscious of the hardness.

He knew himself now to be absolutely without resource; turn which way he would, rack ready wits as he might, no road suggested itself except, perhaps, marriage. And, strangely enough, as has been said, this man, who, young as he was, had few ideals left, had this, that he shrank from mending his broken fortunes by a marriage for money. True, it was common, almost universal. True, in matters relating to his own ease and comfort, selfishness generally became paramount. True, this fancy contradicted other characteristics. The fact remained that he hated the idea, and refused to entertain it, even in this moment of despair, when he had entertained others which seemed worse, when he acknowledged that M. de Cadanet had been rash in letting him see the cheque, and that if it had been M. Charles who had stood there between it and him—

He took an open letter from his pocket, and groaned as he closed it, so that a woman who was passing looked round; but seeing only a handsome young man with a cheek as round as a child’s, she smiled and went on. The letter was addressed to Mme. de Beaudrillart, at Poissy, and had been brought with him with the hope that an added postscript might have told of some happy turn of Fortune’s wheel. Now it must go as it stood, messenger of ill-tidings.

“Monsieur le baron has not got far.”

Léon looked hastily round; André the concierge was by his side. His first wild thought was that M. de Cadanet had relented and sent after him, the next moment his eye fell upon a packet of letters which the man carried, and he was seized with longing to know whether the letter addressed to M. Charles was among them. His genial manner made him a favourite with servants.

“Ah, André,” he said; “you have there monsieur le comte’s letters?”

“As monsieur le baron sees.”

“Permit me to glance at them. I wish to see whether one of which he spoke is there.”

They were in his hand even before he had finished speaking—four. Yes; the address to M. Charles Lemaire stared him in the face. The next moment the concierge had four letters again, but one of the four was addressed to Mme. de Beaudrillart, at Poissy.

“Thanks, André.” M. Léon burst into a laugh, and tossed the man a piece of twenty sous. “Tell monsieur le comte—No; tell him nothing; I will write.”

That evening M. de Cadanet received a letter:

“My Cousin,—I have taken the liberty of borrowing the sum which you had so thoughtfully prepared for Monsieur Charles. It would have been better for him if you had accepted my offer to post your letter; as you declined to trust me, I had no scruple in exchanging it for another which found itself in my hand at the exact moment. Do not blame your messenger, who is quite unaware of the transaction. By my writing to you, you will perceive that I have no intention of denying what I have done. It is in your power to have me arrested. You know where to find me, and I will remain in Paris for two days, so as to avoid the pain to my family of a scandal at Poissy. Permit me, however, to point out that I have only taken the money as a loan, that it will be returned to you by instalments, and with interest, though, I fear, slowly, and that you may find it more advantageous to allow the matter to rest than to ruin one who, however unworthy, is the son of the man to whom you were certainly indebted for your prosperity.”

It must be owned that this was a strange letter to write and to receive. The answer that came back was brief:

“Monsieur,—You have confirmed me in my judgment. I preserve your letter. For the present I hold my hand; when the time arrives I shall know how to act.
“Martin de Cadanet.”