minds of plebeians.

Thus the marquis continued: "I am necessarily compelled to omit
many particulars, my dear baron. The count was not very explicit
when he reached this part of his story; but, in spite of his
reticence, I learned that he had been tricked in his turn, that
certain papers had been stolen from him, and that he had been
defrauded in many ways by his inamorata. I also know that M. de
Chalusse's whole life was haunted by the thought of the husband he
had wronged. He felt a presentiment that he would die by this
man's hand. He saw danger on every side. If he went out alone in
the evening, which was an exceedingly rare occurrence, he turned
the street corners with infinite caution; it seemed to him that he
could always see the gleam of a poniard or a pistol in the shade.
I should never have believed in this constant terror on the part
of a really brave man, if he had not confessed it to me with his
own lips. Ten or twelve years passed before he dared to make the
slightest attempt to find his daughter, so much did he fear to
arouse his enemy's attention. It was not until he had discovered
that the husband had become discouraged and had discontinued his
search, that the count began his. It was a long and arduous one,
but at last it succeeded, thanks to the assistance of a clever
scoundrel named Fortunat."

The baron with difficulty repressed a movement of eager curiosity,
and remarked: "What a peculiar name!"

"And his first name is Isidore. Ah! he's a smooth-tongued
scoundrel, a rascal of the most dangerous kind, who richly
deserves to be in jail. How it is that he is allowed to prosecute