“Brother!” said Adeline, kneeling down by the Marshal, “live for my sake.  Help me in the task of reconciling Hector to the world and making him redeem the past.”

“He!” cried the Marshal.  “If he lives, he is not at the end of his crimes.  A man who has misprized an Adeline, who has smothered in his own soul the feelings of a true Republican which I tried to instill into him, the love of his country, of his family, and of the poor —­that man is a monster, a swine!—­Take him away if you still care for him, for a voice within me cries to me to load my pistols and blow his brains out.  By killing him I should save you all, and I should save him too from himself.”

The old man started to his feet with such a terrifying gesture that poor Adeline exclaimed: 

“Hector—­come!”

She seized her husband’s arm, dragged him away, and out of the house; but the Baron was so broken down, that she was obliged to call a coach to take him to the Rue Plumet, where he went to bed.  The man remained there for several days in a sort of half-dissolution, refusing all nourishment without a word.  By floods of tears, Adeline persuaded him to swallow a little broth; she nursed him, sitting by his bed, and feeling only, of all the emotions that once had filled her heart, the deepest pity for him.

At half-past twelve, Lisbeth showed into her dear Marshal’s room—­for she would not leave him, so much was she alarmed at the evident change in him—­Count Steinbock and the notary.

“Monsieur le Comte,” said the Marshal, “I would beg you to be so good as to put your signature to a document authorizing my niece, your wife, to sell a bond for certain funds of which she at present holds only the reversion.—­You, Mademoiselle Fischer, will agree to this sale, thus losing your life interest in the securities.”

“Yes, dear Count,” said Lisbeth without hesitation.

“Good, my dear,” said the old soldier.  “I hope I may live to reward you.  But I did not doubt you; you are a true Republican, a daughter of the people.”  He took the old maid’s hand and kissed it.

“Monsieur Hannequin,” he went on, speaking to the notary, “draw up the necessary document in the form of a power of attorney, and let me have it within two hours, so that I may sell the stock on the Bourse to-day.  My niece, the Countess, holds the security; she will be here to sign the power of attorney when you bring it, and so will mademoiselle.  Monsieur le Comte will be good enough to go with you and sign it at your office.”

The artist, at a nod from Lisbeth, bowed respectfully to the Marshal and went away.

Next morning, at ten o’clock, the Comte de Forzheim sent in to announce himself to the Prince, and was at once admitted.

“Well, my dear Hulot,” said the Prince, holding out the newspapers to his old friend, “we have saved appearances, you see.—­Read.”

Marshal Hulot laid the papers on his comrade’s table, and held out to him the two hundred thousand francs.