M. Fortunat’s countenance wore an expression of profound commiseration. A looker-on would have supposed him interested and sympathetic to the last degree; but in reality, he was furious. Time was passing, and the conversation was wandering farther and farther from the object of his visit. “I am surprised, madame,” said he, “that you never applied to your former employer, the Count de Chalusse.” “Alas! I did apply to him for assistance several times----” “With what result?” “The first time I went to him he received me; I told him my troubles, and he gave me bank-notes to the amount of five thousand francs.” M. Fortunat raised his hands to the ceiling. “Five thousand francs!” he repeated, in a tone of astonishment; “this count must be very rich----” “So rich, monsieur, that he doesn’t know how much he’s worth. He owns, nobody knows how many houses in Paris, chateaux in every part of the country, entire villages, forests--his gold comes in by the shovelful.” The spurious clerk closed his eyes, as if he were dazzled by this vision of wealth. “The second time I went to the count’s house,” resumed Madame Vantrasson, “I didn’t see him, but he sent me a thousand francs. The third and last time they gave me twenty francs at the door, and told me that the count had gone on a journey. I understood that I could hope for no further help from him. Besides, all the servants had been changed. One morning, without any apparent reason, M. de Chalusse dismissed all the old servants, so they told me. He even sent away the concierge and the housekeeper.” “Why didn’t you apply to his wife?” “M. de Chalusse isn’t married. He never has been married.” From the expression of solicitude upon her guest’s features, Madame Vantrasson supposed he was racking his brain to discover some mode of escape from her present difficulties. “If I were in your place,” he said, “I should try to interest his relatives and family in my case----” “The count has no relatives.” “Impossible!” “He hasn’t, indeed. During the ten years I was in his service, I heard him say more than a dozen times that he alone was left of all his family--that all the others were dead. People pretend that this is the reason why he is so immensely rich.” M. Fortunat’s interest was no longer assumed; he was rapidly approaching the real object of his visit. “No relatives!” he muttered. “Who, then, will inherit his millions when he dies?” Madame Vantrasson jerked her head. “Who can say?” she replied. “Everything will go to the government, probably, unless---- But no, that’s impossible.” “What’s impossible?” “Nothing. I was thinking of the count’s sister, Mademoiselle Hermine.” “His sister! Why, you said just now that he had no relatives.” “It’s the same as if he hadn’t; no one knows what has become of her, poor creature! Some say that she married; others declare that she died. It’s quite a romance.”