After attending to some business, Jules returned to his wife,--recalled by her invincible attraction. His passion was stronger than his anguish. The next day, at nine o’clock Jules left home, hurried to the rue des Enfants-Rouges, went upstairs, and rang the bell of the widow Gruget’s lodgings. “Ah! you’ve kept your word, as true as the dawn. Come in, monsieur,” said the old woman when she saw him. “I’ve made you a cup of coffee with cream,” she added, when the door was closed. “Oh! real cream; I saw it milked myself at the dairy we have in this very street.” “Thank you, no, madame, nothing. Take me at once--” “Very good, monsieur. Follow me, this way.” She led him up into the room above her own, where she showed him, triumphantly, an opening about the size of a two-franc piece, made during the night, in a place, which, in each room, was above a wardrobe. In order to look through it, Jules was forced to maintain himself in rather a fatiguing attitude, by standing on a step-ladder which the widow had been careful to place there. “There’s a gentleman with him,” she whispered, as she retired. Jules then beheld a man employed in dressing a number of wounds on the shoulders of Ferragus, whose head he recognized from the description given to him by Monsieur de Maulincour. “When do you think those wounds will heal?” asked Ferragus. “I don’t know,” said the other man. “The doctors say those wounds will require seven or eight more dressings.” “Well, then, good-bye until to-night,” said Ferragus, holding out his hand to the man, who had just replaced the bandage. “Yes, to-night,” said the other, pressing his hand cordially. “I wish I could see you past your sufferings.” “To-morrow Monsieur de Funcal’s papers will be delivered to us, and Henri Bourignard will be dead forever,” said Ferragus. “Those fatal marks which have cost us so dear no longer exist. I shall become once more a social being, a man among men, and more of a man than the sailor whom the fishes are eating. God knows it is not for my own sake I have made myself a Portuguese count!” “Poor Gratien!--you, the wisest of us all, our beloved brother, the Benjamin of the band; as you very well know.” “Adieu; keep an eye on Maulincour.” “You can rest easy on that score.” “Ho! stay, marquis,” cried the convict. “What is it?” “Ida is capable of everything after the scene of last night. If she should throw herself into the river, I would not fish her out. She knows the secret of my name, and she’ll keep it better there. But still, look after her; for she is, in her way, a good girl.” “Very well.” The stranger departed. Ten minutes later Jules heard, with a feverish shudder, the rustle of a silk gown, and almost recognized by their sound the steps of his wife. “Well, father,” said Clemence, “my poor father, are you better? What courage you have shown!” “Come here, my child,” replied Ferragus, holding out his hand to her. Clemence held her forehead to him and he kissed it.