“How kind of you!” she began, “and how can we ever sufficiently thank you?” He interrupted her. “You owe me no thanks, my beloved; for, in what I am doing, there is more selfishness than you think. It is my own cause, more than yours, that I am defending. Any way, every thing is going on well.” And, without giving any more explanations, he started again. He had no doubt that Maxence, after leaving him, had run to the Hotel des Folies to give to Mlle. Lucienne an account of the day’s work. And, though somewhat annoyed that he had tarried so long, on second thought, he was not surprised. It was, therefore, to the Hotel des Folies that he was going. Now that he had unmasked his batteries and begun the struggle, he was not sorry to meet Mlle. Lucienne. In less than five minutes he had reached the Boulevard du Temple. In front of the Fortins’ narrow corridor a dozen idlers were standing, talking. M. de Tregars was listening as he went along. “It is a frightful accident,” said one,--“such a pretty girl, and so young too!” “As to me,” said another, “it is the driver that I pity the most; for after all, if that pretty miss was in that carriage, it was for her own pleasure; whereas, the poor coachman was only attending to his business.” A confused presentiment oppressed M. de Tregars’ heart. Addressing himself to one of those worthy citizens, “Have you heard any particulars?” Flattered by the confidence, “Certainly I have,” he replied. “I didn’t see the thing with my own proper eyes; but my wife did. It was terrible. The carriage, a magnificent private carriage too, came from the direction of the Madeleine. The horses had run away; and already there had been an accident in the Place du Chateau d’Eau, where an old woman had been knocked down. Suddenly, here, over there, opposite the toy-shop, which is mine, by the way, the wheel of the carriage catches into the wheel of an enormous truck; and at once, palata! the coachman is thrown down, and so is the lady, who was inside,--a very pretty girl, who lives in this hotel.” Leaving there the obliging narrator, M. de Tregars rushed through the narrow corridor of the Hotel des Folies. At the moment when he reached the yard, he found himself in presence of Maxence. Pale, his head bare, his eyes wild, shaking with a nervous chill, the poor fellow looked like a madman. Noticing M. de Tregars, “Ah, my friend!” he exclaimed, “what misfortune!” “Lucienne?” “Dead, perhaps. The doctor will not answer for her recovery. I am going to the druggist’s to get a prescription.” He was interrupted by the commissary of police, whose kind protection had hitherto preserved Mlle. Lucienne. He was coming out of the little room on the ground-floor, which the Fortins used for an office, bedroom, and dining-room. He had recognized Marius de Tregars, and, coming up to him, he pressed his hand, saying, “Well, you know?” “Yes.”