It must be admitted that he was indebted to his mother alone for his escape from suicide--that grim madness that seizes hold of so many desperate, despairing men. And it was still to his mother--the incomparable guardian of his honor--that he owed his resolution on the morning he applied to Baron Trigault. And his courage met with its first reward. He was no longer the same man when he left the princely mansion which he had entered with his heart so full of anguish. He was still somewhat bewildered with the strange scenes which he had involuntarily witnessed, the secrets he had overheard, and the revelations which had been made to him; but a light gleamed on the horizon--a fitful and uncertain light, it is true, but nevertheless a hopeful gleam. At least, he would no longer have to struggle alone. An honest and experienced man, powerful by reason of his reputation, his connections and his fortune, had promised him his help. Thanks to this man whom misfortune had made a truer friend than years could have done, he would have access to the wretch who had deprived him both of his honor and of the woman he loved. He knew the weak spot in the marquis’s armor now; he knew where and how to strike, and he felt sure that he should succeed in winning Valorsay’s confidence, and in obtaining irrefutable proofs of his villainy. Pascal was eager to inform his mother of the fortunate result of his visit, but certain arrangements which were needful for the success of his plans required his attention, and it was nearly five o’clock when he reached the Route de la Revolte. Madame Ferailleur was just returning home when he arrived, which surprised him considerably, for he had not known that she had intended going out. The cab she had used was still standing before the door, and she had not had time to take off her shawl and bonnet when he entered the house. She uttered a joyful cry on perceiving her son. She was so accustomed to read his secret thoughts on his face, that it was unnecessary for him to say a word; before he had even opened his lips, she cried: “So you have succeeded?” “Yes, mother, beyond my hopes.” “I was not deceived, then, in the worthy man who came to offer us his assistance?” “No, certainly not. Do what I may, I can never repay him for his generosity and self-denial. If you knew, my dear mother, if you only knew----” “What?” He kissed her as if he wished to apologize for what he was about to say, and then he quickly replied: “Marguerite is the daughter of Baroness Trigault.” Madame Ferailleur started back, as if she had seen a reptile spring up in her pathway. “The daughter of the baroness!” she faltered. “Great Heavens!”