"What is it?" she demanded. "Don't you see we are all waiting?" "'Prince George, of Schloshold, has just died of an apoplexy,'" the Prince read. "'You will inform the Prince of Markeld that we will support his house to the limit of our power. Vernon,'" "God be praised!" cried the duchess. "God be praised," and she caught at the door to keep herself from falling. "He was a bad man," she added in another tone. "Therefore he needs our prayers!" "I give Monsieur le Prince the congratulations of France," said an oily voice, and Monsieur Tellier bowed low. "Oh!" cried Nell, and shrank away from him. "Is that the scoundrel?" demanded Cranford. And he started across the room. "One moment," interposed the Prince, "don't soil your hands on him. Glück!" he called, raising his voice. And Glück appeared on the instant. His master indicated Tellier with the motion of a finger. It was wonderful to see how Glück's face brightened--almost into a smile--as he laid his hand on Tellier's shoulder. "Canaille!" hissed the latter, and shook the hand away. "Do not touch me--do not defile me with those dirty fingers. Oh, I will go! I have my task accomplished! And you are fools, imbeciles--all--all--from that fat Dutchman, who thinks his wife still living--" But Glück was again upon him, this time not to be shaken off, and an instant later he and his victim disappeared together into the shadows of the hall. "Just the same," shrieked Tellier's voice hoarsely from the distance, "it was I who was right! In every detail! A veritable triumph! A success of--" The voice sank into a gurgle and was still. Pelletan, his face livid, clutching blindly at the wall for support, stumbled forth into the hall, along the corridor, down the stair, until at last he found Tellier, his face purple, rearranging his cravat before a mirror in the hotel office. "Iss she not lifing?" he asked, huskily. "Living!" echoed Tellier, whirling upon him fiercely. "No, pig-head, she has been dead these three years! But you are no more a pig-head than those others. Oh, they shall answer, they shall repay, they shall atone! I will have my revenge--" But Pelletan did not stop to listen. He groped his way across the room, his eyes shining, his lips trembling, repeating over and over a single word-- "Paris! Paris! Paris!" Behind the desk he stumbled, through the little door, and dropped to his knees before Saint Genevieve, the protector of the city which he loved. "You haf done eet!" he murmured, looking up at her with limpid eyes. "You haf seen how I suffered, unt you haf taken pity. Gott sie dank! Gott sie dank!" CHAPTER XXI Pardon As Tellier's voice died away along the hall, a silence fell upon the room which he had left--a silence from which the duchess was the first to rouse herself. "Come, Fritz," she said, "we must go. We have work to do," and she held out her hand to him. He took a step toward her, hesitated, stopped.