Everything in M. de Valorsay’s house, as at the baron’s residence, indicated great wealth, and yet a close observer would have detected a difference. The luxury of the Rue de la Ville-l’Eveque was of a real and substantial character, which one did not find in the Avenue des Champs Elysees. Everything in the marquis’s abode bore marks of the haste which mars the merest trifle produced at the present age. “Take a seat here, and I will see where the marquis is,” said the servant, as he ushered Pascal into a large drawing-room. The apartment was elegantly furnished, but had somewhat lost its freshness; the carpet, which had once been a marvel of beauty, was stained in several places, and as the servants had not always been careful to keep the shutters closed, the sunlight had perceptibly faded the curtains. The attention of visitors was at once attracted by the number of gold and silver cups, vases, and statuettes scattered about on side-tables and cheffoniers. Each of these objects bore an inscription, setting forth that it had been won at such a race, in such a year, by such a horse, belonging to the Marquis de Valorsay. These were indeed the marquis’s chief claims to glory, and had cost him at least half of the immense fortune he had inherited. However, Pascal did not take much interest in these trophies, so the time of waiting seemed long. “Valorsay is playing the diplomat,” he thought. “He doesn’t wish to appear to be anxious. Unfortunately, his servant has betrayed him.” At last the valet returned. “The marquis will see you now, monsieur,” said he. This summons affected Pascal’s heart like the first roll of a drum beating the charge. But his coolness did not desert him. “Now is the decisive moment,” he thought. “Heaven grant that he may not recognize me!” And with a firm step he followed the valet. M. de Valorsay was seated in the apartment he usually occupied when he remained at home--a little smoking-room connected with his bedroom. He was to all intents busily engaged in examining some sporting journals. A bottle of Madeira and a partially filled glass stood near him. As the servant announced “Monsieur Maumejan!” he looked up and his eyes met Pascal’s. But his glance did not waver; not a muscle of his face moved; his countenance retained its usually cold and disdainful expression. Evidently he had not the slightest suspicion that the man he had tried to ruin--his mortal enemy--was standing there before him. “M. Maumejan,” said he, “Baron Trigault’s agent?” “Yes, monsieur----” “Pray be seated. I am just finishing here; I shall be at leisure in a moment.”