Was M. Costeclar sent by M. de Thaller?  Had the manager of the Mutual Credit changed his mind? and had he decided to accept the conditions which he had at first rejected?  In that case, it was too late.  It was no longer in the power of any human being to suspend the action of justice.  Without giving any further thought to that visit,

“I am worn out with fatigue,” said M. de Tregars, “and I am going to lie down.  At eight o’clock precisely you will call me.”

But it was in vain that he tried to find a short respite in sleep.  For forty-eight hours his mind had been taxed beyond measure, his nerves had been wrought up to an almost intolerable degree of exaltation.

As soon as he closed his eyes, it was with a merciless precision that his imagination presented to him all the events which had taken place since that afternoon in the Place-Royale when he had ventured to declare his love to Mlle. Gilberte.  Who could have told him then, that he would engage in that struggle, the issue of which must certainly be some abominable scandal in which his name would be mixed?  Who could have told him, that gradually, and by the very force of circumstances, he would be led to overcome his repugnance, and to rival the ruses and the tortuous combinations of the wretches he was trying to reach?

But he was not of those who, once engaged, regret, hesitate, and draw back.  His conscience reproached him for nothing.  It was for justice and right that he was battling; and Mlle. Gilberte was the prize that would reward him.

Eight o’clock struck; and his servant came in.

“Run for a cab,” he said:  “I’ll be ready in a moment.”

He was ready, in fact, when the old servant returned; and, as he had in his pocket some of those arguments that lend wings to the poorest cab-horses, in less than ten minutes he had reached the Hotel des Folies.

“How is Mlle. Lucienne?” he inquired first of all of the worthy hostess.

The intervention of the commissary of police had made M. Fortin and his wife more supple than gloves, and more gentle than doves.

“The poor dear child is much better,” answered Mme. Fortin; “and the doctor, who has just left, now feels sure of her recovery.  But there is a row up there.”

“A row?”

“Yes.  That lady whom my husband went after last night insists upon going out; and M. Maxence won’t let her:  so that they are quarreling up there.  Just listen.”

The loud noise of a violent altercation could be heard distinctly.  M. de Tregars started up stairs, and on the second-story landing he found Maxence holding on obstinately to the railing, whilst Mme. Zelie Cadelle, redder than a peony, was trying to induce him to let her pass, treating him at the same time to some of the choicest epithets of her well-stocked repertory.  Catching sight of Marius,

“Is it you,” she cried, “who gave orders to keep me here against my wishes?  By what right?  Am I your prisoner?”