sister of his, who had fled from the paternal roof with nobody
knows who, had been seen there. He had been absent some four
months or so, when one morning the post brought him a letter from
his pretty mistress, who wrote: 'We are lost! My husband is at
Marseilles: he will be here to-morrow. Never attempt to see me
again. Fear everything from him. Farewell.' On receiving this
letter, M. de Chalusse flung himself into a postchaise, and
returned to Paris. He was determined, absolutely determined, to
have his daughter. But he arrived too late. On hearing of her
husband's return, the young wife had lost her head. She had but
one thought--to conceal her fault, at any cost; and one night,
being completely disguised, she left her child on a doorstep in
the vicinity of the central markets----"

The marquis suddenly paused in his story to exclaim: "Why, what is
the matter with you, my dear baron? What is the matter? Are you
ill? Shall I ring?"

The baron was as pale as if the last drop of blood had been drawn
from his veins, and there were dark purple circles about his eyes.
Still, on being questioned, he managed to answer in a choked
voice, but not without a terrible effort: "Nothing! It is nothing.
A mere trifle! It will be over in a moment. It IS over!" Still
his limbs trembled so much that he could not stand, and he sank on
to a chair, murmuring: "I entreat you, marquis--continue. It is
very interesting--very interesting indeed."

M. de Valorsay resumed his narrative. "The husband was
incontestably an artless fellow: but he was also, it appears, a
man of remarkable energy and determination. Having somehow