“I can answer for that; his poverty had isolated him from all but a woman named Rose, and I took care that she should be sent to the prison of St. Lazare. At one time I was a little anxious, as I heard that Paul had a patron; but he, as I have found out, was the Count de Mussidan, the murderer of Montlouis, who, as you may have guessed, was Paul’s father.” “We have nothing, then, to fear from that quarter,” said the doctor. “Nothing; and while you get on with your work, I will hurry on Paul’s marriage with Rigal’s daughter. But this will not prevent my busying myself in another quarter; for before a month Henri de Croisenois will have floated his Company, and become the husband of Sabine de Mussidan.” “I think that it is about time for dinner,” remarked Hortebise, and, turning to the _protégé_ of the association, he added, “Come, Paul.” But Paul made no movement, and then for the first time it was seen that the poor boy had fainted, and they had to sprinkle cold water upon him before he regained consciousness. “Surely,” remarked the doctor, “it is not the idea of a trifling operation that you will not feel which has so frightened you?” Paul shook his head. “It is not that,” said he. “What, then, is it?” “Simply that the real man exists; I know him, and know where he lives.” “What do you mean?” they cried. “I know him, I tell you--the son of the Duke de Champdoce.” “Let us hear all!” cried Mascarin, who was the first to come to his senses. “Explain yourself.” “Simply this. I know such a young man, and it was the thought of this that made me feel so ill. He is thirty-three. He was at the Foundling Hospital; he left it at the age of twelve and a half years; and he has just such a scald on his shoulder, which he got when he was apprenticed to a tanner.” “And where,” asked Mascarin quickly, “is this same young man? What is his name, and what does he do for a living?” “He is a painter; his name is Andre, and he lives--” A blasphemous oath from Mascarin interrupted him. “This is the third time,” said he fiercely, “that this cursed fellow has crossed our path; but I swear that it shall be the last.” Hortebise and Catenac were livid with alarm. “What do you intend to do?” asked they. “I shall do nothing,” answered he; “but you know that this Andre, in addition to being a painter, is an ornamental sculptor and house decorator, and so is often on lofty scaffolds. Have you never heard that accidents frequently happen to that class of people?” CHAPTER XXI. A MELANCHOLY MASHER.