Without speaking a word, Pascal caught hold of his mother’s hands and pressed them to his lips. His face was wet with tears. His overstrained nerves relaxed under the soothing influence of maternal tenderness and devotion. Reason, too, had regained her ascendency. His mother’s noble words found an echo in his own heart, and he now looked upon suicide as an act of madness and cowardice. Madame Ferailleur felt that the victory was assured, but this did not suffice; she wished to enlist Pascal in her plans. “It is evident,” she resumed, “that M. de Coralth is the author of this abominable plot. But what could have been his object? Has he any reason to fear you, Pascal? Has he confided to you, or have you discovered, any secret that might ruin him if it were divulged?” “No, mother.” “Then he must be the vile instrument of some even more despicable being. Reflect, my son. Have you wounded any of your friends? Are you sure that you are in nobody’s way? Consider carefully. Your profession has its dangers; and those who adopt it must expect to make bitter enemies.” Pascal trembled. It seemed to him as if a ray of light at last illumined the darkness--a dim and uncertain ray, it is true, but still a gleam of light. “Who knows!” he muttered; “who knows!” Madame Ferailleur reflected a few moments, and the nature of her reflections brought a flush to her brow. “This is one of those cases in which a mother should overstep reserve,” said she. “If you had a mistress, my son----” “I have none,” he answered, promptly. Then his own face flushed, and after an instant’s hesitation, he added: “But I entertain the most profound and reverent love for a young girl, the most beautiful and chaste being on earth--a girl who, in intelligence and heart, is worthy of you, my own mother.” Madame Ferailleur nodded her head gravely, as much as to say that she had expected to find a woman at the bottom of the mystery. “And who is this young girl?” she inquired. “What is her name?” “Marguerite.” “Marguerite who?” Pascal’s embarrassment increased. “She has no other name,” he replied, hurriedly, “and she does not know her parents. She formerly lived in our street with her companion, Madame Leon, and an old female servant. It was there that I saw her for the first time. She now lives in the house of the Count de Chalusse, in the Rue de Courcelles.” “In what capacity?” “The count has always taken care of her--she owes her education to him. He acts as her guardian; and although she has never spoken to me on the subject, I fancy that the Count de Chalusse is her father.” “And does this girl love you, Pascal?” “I believe so, mother. She has promised me that she will have no other husband than myself.” “And the count?”