“He doesn’t know--he doesn’t even suspect anything about it. Day after day I have been trying to gather courage to tell you everything, and to ask you to go to the Count de Chalusse. But my position is so modest as yet. The count is immensely rich, and he intends to give Marguerite an enormous fortune--two millions, I believe----” Madame Ferailleur interrupted him with a gesture. “Look no further,” she said; “you have found the explanation.” Pascal sprang to his feet with crimson cheeks, flaming eyes, and quivering lips. “It may be so,” he exclaimed; “it may be so! The count’s immense fortune may have tempted some miserable scoundrel. Who knows but some one may have been watching Marguerite, and have discovered that I am an obstacle?” “Something told me that my suspicions were correct,” said Madame Ferailleur. “I had no proofs, and yet I felt sure of it.” Pascal was absorbed in thought. “And what a strange coincidence,” he eventually remarked. “Do you know, the last time I saw Marguerite, a week ago, she seemed so sad and anxious that I felt alarmed. I questioned her, but at first she would not answer. After a little while, however, as I insisted, she said: ‘Ah, well, I fear the count is planning a marriage for me. M. de Chalusse has not said a word to me on the subject, but he has recently had several long conferences in private with a young man whose father rendered him a great service in former years. And this young man, whenever I meet him, looks at me in such a peculiar manner.’” “What is his name?” asked Madame Ferailleur. “I don’t know--she didn’t mention it; and her words so disturbed me that I did not think of asking. But she will tell me. This evening, if I don’t succeed in obtaining an interview, I will write to her. If your suspicions are correct, mother, our secret is in the hands of three persons, and so it is a secret no longer----” He paused suddenly to listen. The noise of a spirited altercation between the servant and some visitor, came from the ante-room. “I tell you that he IS at home,” said some one in a panting voice, “and I must see him and speak with him at once. It is such an urgent matter that I left a card-party just at the most critical moment to come here.” “I assure you, monsieur, that M. Ferailleur has gone out.” “Very well; I will wait for him, then. Take me to a room where I can sit down.” Pascal turned pale, for he recognized the voice of the individual who had suggested searching him at Madame d’Argeles’s house. Nevertheless, he opened the door; and a man, with a face like a full moon, and who was puffing and panting like a locomotive, came forward with the assurance of a person who thinks he may do anything he chooses by reason of his wealth. “Zounds!” he exclaimed. “I knew perfectly well that you were here. You don’t recognize me, perhaps, my dear sir. I am Baron Trigault--I came to----”