economy from which his soul revolted, and which, therefore, he contrived to persuade himself was worthless. It might suit the sordid little nature of a bourgeois bonhomme, but not that of the owner of Poissy. Something larger must be attempted, and quickly.

Before Léon’s eyes there had floated for some time the possibility of applying to an old cousin of the family, a certain M. de Cadanet. For various reasons, it appeared as if he were the very person to assist him. Rumour credited him with an immense fortune; and, at any rate, there could be no doubt that he had made more than one successful speculation, among them that of marrying a rich wife, who died childless. Rich and solitary, what better person could be found to come to the rescue of the De Beaudrillarts? And there was an even stronger reason for counting upon his good-will. In the days when he had not found prosperity, and was struggling to stand up against more than one hard buffet dealt by Fortune, Léon’s father had given him a helping hand. Perhaps without him he would have been unable to keep his footing; certainly the support was of material service, and Léon had some excuse for thinking that now was the moment for him to return it.

But, unfortunately, the relations between the young man and the old were already strained. It was not only that Léon’s frivolities, Léon’s extravagances, were hateful to the cautions and clear-headed speculator, who had made his way to wealth by dint of industry and prudence, and set those virtues beyond all others—there was a third person whose influence was extremely damaging to the young baron, a certain Charles Lemaire, who had married a niece of M. de Cadanet’s wife. His uncle credited him with the qualities he loved, and there could be no doubt that he was cautious, and, when it suited his interests, frugal. He had, however, as Léon knew very well to his own cost, a passion for gambling, and at the same time extraordinary luck. When first the two found themselves at the same table, they were unknown to each other, and Charles had never got over the disagreeable shock with which he realised that the handsome young man who lost his money so easily was cousin to the uncle to whose solitary habits he trusted for non-detection. From that moment he detested him, and worked to damage his character in the eyes of M. de Cadanet. His follies—and Heaven knows they were many—were repeated and exaggerated. Each idle rumour, whether well or ill founded, reached the old man’s ears. Rash and youthful political utterances were spoken of with sorrowful gravity. One or two laughing comments upon M. de Cadanet’s habits became cruel ridicule. And with all this M. Charles lost no opportunity of ingratiating himself. He understood the subtile flattery of asking advice, and of outwardly following it. He deferred to his uncle in every point. And he contrived, at last, to make himself so necessary to M. de Cadanet that if he stayed away he was missed and blamed.

Léon made no attempt to act as a rival. Kind-heartedness and general good-will inclined him to look in upon the solitary old man, and he went once or twice to his house. But he was received with coldness and marked displeasure, and had pleased himself too long to endure what he disliked. His visits ceased. M. de Cadanet, who claimed attention, became more incensed. Once or twice he asked Charles where the young fool kept himself.

“My dear uncle, how should I know? You do not expect me to frequent his haunts. And it would pain me too much to repeat to you all that I hear. It is more charitable to shut one’s ears, and to hope that the world is mistaken.”

And he pressed his hand on his pocket, where reposed the notes he had won the night before.

On his part, Léon suspected him of enmity, but would have scorned to retaliate; and Charles based his own assurance upon knowledge of his character, and upon the insidious manner in which he had poisoned his uncle’s mind.

Now, however, when the waters were closing over the De Beaudrillarts, Léon felt that the moment had come for an appeal. Surely gratitude to the dead man who had helped him would induce M. de Cadanet to step forward and save his son from ruin. Léon, whose nature was buoyantly sanguine, made up his mind to a scolding, but saw himself coming away with the estates saved. As he walked along the streets, sparkling with crisp sunshine and gaiety, his spirits rose, and the fears and torments he had been going through fell away. He almost laughed when he thought of a despairing letter to his mother which he had written the night before and had with him, and he assured himself that the postscript which must undoubtedly be added would bring joy to Poissy.

In this hopeful frame of mind he reached M. de Cadanet’s house in the Rue du Bac, a house quiet and somewhat gloomy in appearance. Léon entered the porte-cochère, and passed the small office of the concierge. He went quickly up to the first-floor, and, passing through an austerely furnished suite of rooms, was finally ushered into one smaller than the others, where, surrounded by books and a few indifferent pictures, M. de Cadanet sat writing, an old man, short, bent, and with a skin like yellow ivory.

Léon came in smiling, almost radiant. He had succeeded in persuading his sanguine self that he had reached the end of his difficulties, and he had profound faith in the imperturbable good-humour which seldom failed to charm. He advanced with outstretched hand, coldly received by his cousin.

“I am ashamed, count, to recall how long it is since I have been to call on you. Do you forgive me?”

The old man drew himself up.

“I am not aware of having expected the honour of a visit from Monsieur de Beaudrillart.”

“I accept the rebuke,” said Léon, smiling frankly. “To tell the truth, you might have seen me oftener if I had been sure of a welcome. But I am afraid I have deserved my disgrace.”

“Of that no one, monsieur, can judge better than yourself.”

“Why monsieur?” said the young man, still smiling. “In old days you spoke to me as Léon; and you do not forget that we are cousins.”

“One does not so easily forget one’s misfortunes.”

“Misfortunes!” repeated Léon, colouring. The next moment he recovered himself sufficiently to say good-humouredly, “Pardon me, but was it always a misfortune, count!”

The old man glanced at him with the first touch of wavering in his face.

“You need not remind me,” he said. “I should not now be listening to you were it not for the remembrance of your father. But you did not come here merely to pay a visit of ceremony to a cantankerous old mummy?”

He emphasised the words bitterly, for, according to M. Charles, this title had been attached to him by Léon. Léon stared and shrugged his shoulders, unconscious of offence, and only anxious to propitiate his terrible relative.

“You are right,” he said, looking down and speaking more hurriedly. “I am here because I am in great difficulties, and because I hoped that—that the remembrance of my father would dispose you to come to the help of his son.”

“And may I ask what has plunged you into difficulties?”

“Oh, my own folly; I don’t attempt to deny it—my own folly, helped on by a dolt of an intendant. If I had had any idea—However, I do not excuse myself. I have been confoundedly extravagant, and I mean to pull up short, I assure you. But, after all, other young men have been in the same position, and, with a helping hand, have managed to scramble out of it again. I have