‘Ah, see you,’ she cried to her uncle, ‘is it not interesting?’ Lucius stated his case plainly. At the name of Dumarques Monsieur Dolfe pricked up his ears. Something akin to emotion agitated his bloated face. A quiver of mental pain convulsed his triple chin. ‘You are familiar with the name of Dumarques?’ said Lucius, wondering. ‘Am I familiar with it? Alas, I know it too well!’ ‘You knew Félicie Dumarques?’ ‘I knew Félicie Dumarques’ mother before she married that old skinflint who murdered her.’ ‘But, my uncle!’ screamed Mademoiselle. ‘_Tais-toi_, child! I know it was slow murder. It came not within the law. It was an assassination that lasted months and years. How often have I seen that poor child’s pale face! No smile ever brightened it, after her marriage with that vile miser. She did not weep; she did not complain. The angels in heaven are not more spotless than she was as wife and mother. She only ceased to smile, and she died by inches. No matter that she lived twenty years after her marriage—it was gradual death all the same.’ Monsieur Dolfe was profoundly moved. He pushed back his skull-cap, exposing his bald head, which he rubbed despondently with his fat white hand. ‘Did I know her? We were neighbours as children. My parents and hers lived side by side. Her father was a notary—above my father in station; but she and I played together as children—went to the same school together as little ones—for the notary was poor, and Lucille—’ ‘Lucille!’ repeated Lucius. ‘Yes, Madame Dumarques’ name was Lucille.’ ‘I understand. Go on, pray, monsieur.’ ‘Monsieur Valneau, Lucille’s father, was poor, I repeat, and the children—there were several—were brought up anyhow. Thus we saw more of each other than we might have done otherwise. Lucille and my sister were fast friends. She spent many an evening in our house, which was in many ways more comfortable than the wretched _troisième_ occupied by the Valneau family. This continued till I was sixteen, and Lucille about fourteen. No word of love had passed between us, as you may imagine, at that early age; but I had shown my devotion to her as well as a boy can, and I think she must have known that I adored her. Whether she ever cared, even in the smallest degree, for me, is a secret I shall never know. At sixteen years of age my father sent me to Paris to learn my uncle’s trade—my uncle preceded me, you must know, monsieur, in this house—and I remained there till I was twenty-three. When I came back Lucille had been two years married to André Dumarques. My sister had not had the heart to write me the news. She suffered it to stun me on my return. Valneau’s difficulties had increased. Dumarques had offered to marry Lucille and to help her family; so the poor child was sacrificed.’ ‘A sad story,’ said Lucius. ‘And a common one,’ resumed Monsieur Dolfe.