It was the shameful article which described the events that had robbed Pascal of his honor. And to make assurance doubly sure, to prevent the least mistake concerning the printed initials, the coward who sent the paper had appended the names of the persons mixed up in the affair, at full length, in pencil. He had written d’Argeles, Pascal Ferailleur, Ferdinand de Coralth, Rochecote. And yet, in spite of these precautions, the girl did not at first seize the full meaning of the article; and she was obliged to read it over again. But when she finally understood it--when the horrible truth burst upon her--the paper fell from her nerveless hands, she turned as pale as death, and, gasping for breath, leaned heavily against the wall for support. Her features expressed such terrible suffering that the magistrate sprang from his chair with a bound. “What has happened?” he eagerly asked. She tried to reply, but finding herself unable to do so, she pointed to the paper lying upon the floor, and gasped: “There! there!” The magistrate understood everything at the first glance; and this man, who had witnessed so much misery--who had been the confidant of so many martyrs--was filled with consternation at thought of the misfortunes which destiny was heaping upon this defenceless girl. He approached her, and led her gently to an arm-chair, upon which she sank, half fainting. “Poor child!” he murmured. “The man you had chosen--the man whom you would have sacrificed everything for--is Pascal Ferailleur, is he not?” “Yes, it is he.” “He is an advocate?” “As I have already told you, monsieur.” “Does he live in the Rue d’Ulm?” “Yes.” The magistrate shook his head sadly. “It is the same,” said he. “I also know him, my poor child; and I loved and honored him. Yesterday I should have told you that he was worthy of you. He was above slander. But now, see what depths love of play has brought him to. He is a thief!” Mademoiselle Marguerite’s weakness vanished. She sprang from her chair, and indignantly faced the magistrate. “It is false!” she cried, vehemently; “and what that paper says is false as well!” Had her reason been affected by so many successive blows? It seemed likely; for, livid a moment before, her face had now turned scarlet. She trembled nervously from head to foot, and there was a gleam of insanity in her big black eyes. “If she doesn’t weep, she is lost,” thought the magistrate. And, instead of encouraging her to hope, he deemed it best to try and destroy what he considered a dangerous illusion. “Alas! my poor child,” he said sadly, “you must not deceive yourself. The newspapers are often hasty in their judgment; but an article like that is only published when proof of its truth is furnished by witnesses of unimpeachable veracity.”