In January, 1826, on the day when Havre had unanimously chosen Charles
Mignon as its deputy, three letters, arriving from New York, Paris,
and London, fell with the destruction of a hammer upon the crystal
palace of his prosperity. In an instant ruin like a vulture swooped
down upon their happiness, just as the cold fell in 1812 upon the
grand army in Russia. One night sufficed Charles Mignon to decide upon
his course, and he spent it in settling his accounts with Dumay. All
he owned, not excepting his furniture, would just suffice to pay his
creditors.

"Havre shall never see me doing nothing," said the colonel to the
lieutenant. "Dumay, I take your sixty thousand francs at six per
cent."

"Three, my colonel."

"At nothing, then," cried Mignon, peremptorily; "you shall have your
share in the profits of what I now undertake. The 'Modeste,' which is
no longer mine, sails to-morrow, and I sail in her. I commit to you my
wife and daughter. I shall not write. No news must be taken as good
news."

Dumay, always subordinate, asked no questions of his colonel. "I
think," he said to Latournelle with a knowing little glance, "that my
colonel has a plan laid out."

The following day at dawn he accompanied his master on board the
"Modeste" bound for Constantinople. There, on the poop of the vessel,
the Breton said to the Provencal,--