Similar despondency attacked Pascal Ferailleur when he awoke for
the first time in the abode where he had hidden himself under the
name of Maumejan. A frightful slander had crushed him to the
earth--he could kill his slanderer, but afterward--? How was he to
reach and stifle the slander itself? As well try to hold a handful
of water; as well try to stay with extended arms the progress of
the poisonous breeze which wafts an epidemic on its wings. So the
hope that had momentarily lightened his heart faded away again.
Since he had received that fatal letter from Madame Leon the
evening before, he believed that Marguerite was lost to him
forever, and in this case, it was useless to struggle against
fate. What would be the use of victory even if he conquered?
Marguerite lost to him--what did the rest matter? Ah! if he had
been alone in the world. But he had his mother to think of;--he
belonged to this brave-hearted woman, who had saved him from
suicide already. "I will not yield, then; I will struggle on for
her sake," he muttered, like a man who foresees the futility of
his efforts.

He rose, and had nearly finished dressing, when he heard a rap at
his chamber door. "It is I, my son," said Madame Ferailleur
outside.

Pascal hastened to admit her. "I have come for you because the
woman you spoke about last evening is already here, and before
employing her, I want your advice."

"Then the woman doesn't please you, mother?"