Marius de Tregars stood within the frame of the open door. “Marius!” murmured Mlle. Gilberte, rooted to the spot by a surprise hardly less immense than her joy. To behold him thus suddenly, when she was wondering whether she would ever see him again; to see him appear at the very moment when she found herself alone, and exposed to the basest outrages, --it was one of those fortunate occurrences which one can scarcely realize; and from the depth of her soul rose something like a hymn of thanks. Nevertheless, she was confounded at M. Costeclar’s attitude. According to her, and from what she thought she knew, he should have been petrified at the sight of M. de Tregars. And he did not even seem to know him. He seemed shocked, annoyed at being interrupted, slightly surprised, but in no wise moved or frightened. Knitting his brows, “What do you wish?” he inquired in his most impertinent tone. M. de Tregars stepped forward. He was somewhat pale, but unnaturally calm, cool, and collected. Bowing to Mlle. Gilberte, “If I have thus ventured to enter your apartment, mademoiselle,” he uttered gently, “it is because, as I was going by the door, I thought I recognized this gentleman’s carriage.” And, with his finger over his shoulder, he was pointing to M. Costeclar. “Now,” he went on, “I had reason to be somewhat astonished at this, after the positive orders I had given him never to set his feet, not only in this house, but in this part of the city. I wished to find out exactly. I came up: I heard--” All this was said in a tone of such crushing contempt, that a slap on the face would have been less cruel. All the blood in M. Costeclar’s veins rushed to his face. “You!” he interrupted insolently: “I do not know you.” Imperturbable, M. de Tregars was drawing off his gloves. “Are you quite certain of that?” he replied. “Come, you certainly know my old friend, M. de Villegre?” An evident feeling of anxiety appeared on M. Costeclar’s countenance. “I do,” he stammered. “Did not M. Villegre call upon you before the war?” “He did.” “Well, ‘twas I who sent him to you; and the commands which he delivered to you were mine.” “Yours?” “Mine. I am Marius de Tregars.” A nervous shudder shook M. Costeclar’s lean frame. Instinctively his eye turned towards the door. “You see,” Marius went on with the same gentleness, “we are, you and I, old acquaintances. For you quite remember me now, don’t you? I am the son of that poor Marquis de Tregars who came to Paris, all the way from his old Brittany with his whole fortune, --two millions.” “I remember,” said the stock-broker: “I remember perfectly well.” “On the advice of certain clever people, the Marquis de Tregars ventured into business. Poor old man! He was not very sharp. He was firmly persuaded that he had already more than doubled his capital, when his honorable partners demonstrated to him that he was ruined, and, besides, compromised by certain signatures imprudently given.”