I woke early. It seemed to me that the events of the preceding night were a dream. But, no—she loved me, she was mine, and I was to fight a duel!

At half-past eight, Balloquet arrived, all out of breath.

"What's up, my dear Rochebrune?" he cried. "You wrote me not to fail you, to drop everything—and here I am! Is there a duel on the carpet, by any chance?"

"Just that! I have a duel on hand for this morning, at ten o'clock, at Porte Maillot. I tell you beforehand, my dear Balloquet, that the affair cannot be adjusted; I struck my opponent at the OpÉra last night."

"The devil! it's a serious business, then. What caused the quarrel?"

"It is about a lady, my friend."

"A lady! I understand! that is to say, it's for her lovely eyes."

"If I should tell you her name, I'll be bound that you also would fight for her."

"Oho! do I know her, pray?"

"Madame Dauberny."

"Madame Dauberny! Fichtre! But, tell me, are you in love with her now?"

"I have always been, my dear Balloquet; but I dared not confess it to myself, or tell her, for fear I should be repulsed."

"Like me! But it would seem that you haven't been repulsed. I was in love with her for a moment, after a good dinner. She sent me about my business, and I haven't given her a thought for a long time. But I am none the less enchanted that you have chosen me for your second. She's a charming woman, and, although she didn't listen to my nonsense, 'pon my honor! I'd be very glad to fight for her."

"Give me your hand, Balloquet. I expected nothing less from you."

"What is the weapon?"

"The sword."

"Have you one?"

"Yes; here it is."

"Are there to be only we two?"

"I am expecting my other second."

"Who is he?"

"FrÉdÉrique has undertaken to send him to me. I fancy that it will be a certain Prussian baron, an excellent and honorable man."

I had finished dressing just as the clock struck nine. I was already beginning to fret over the baron's non-appearance, when my door opened and a slender, graceful young man, of most attractive aspect, stood before us. I looked at him several times, before I exclaimed:

"FrÉdÉrique!"

"Myself, my friend."

"What's that? Why, yes, on my word, it's Madame Dauberny!"

"Why are you in this disguise?"

"What! can't you guess? I am your other second."

"You! Can you think of such a thing, FrÉdÉrique?"

"I thought of it instantly, when I knew that you were going to fight for me."

"But it's impossible! A woman cannot act as second. I cannot consent to it.—Isn't that so, Balloquet?"

"It certainly isn't customary, and——"

"Listen, messieurs: I have but one reply to make—I propose to do it! If you don't take me with you, I will follow you and be there, all the same. All argument is useless. I propose to be your second."

"But my adversary's seconds will laugh when they see a woman."

"Never fear, they won't laugh long. But let us go, messieurs; we must not keep them waiting. I have a cab below."

I saw that it was useless for me to try to change FrÉdÉrique's resolution. We started. I took my sword; but I found a pair of foils without buttons in the cab. FrÉdÉrique had thought of everything. We talked little on the way. However brave we may be, we are always assailed by a multitude of reflections when about to fight a duel.

We reached the rendezvous. Saint-Bergame was already there, with Fouvenard and a little man who did not seem to enjoy the occasion at all. I went forward first, apologizing for my delay. Balloquet was behind me, and FrÉdÉrique a little farther back.

Saint-Bergame simply bowed and walked away, saying:

"Let us look for a suitable spot."

The little man suggested that we might fight behind the restaurant.

Fouvenard recognized Balloquet, and they exchanged a formal bow. We went into the woods, and in a few moments came to a small cleared space. I removed my coat, and Saint-Bergame did the same. Then FrÉdÉrique came forward with the foils, and my opponent at once exclaimed:

"What is this? Is Madame Dauberny one of your seconds?"

"Yes, monsieur," replied FrÉdÉrique, with dignity; "for if Charles and his friend do not avenge me, then I will avenge myself."

Saint-Bergame indulged in mocking laughter, and Monsieur Fouvenard deemed it fitting to join him.

"Ha! ha!" he said; "a woman for second! Why, this is charming! I would be glad to cross swords with the lady myself."

"Well! so you shall, if you're not a coward," retorted FrÉdÉrique, offering him one of her foils.

He was still pleased to jest and draw back, saying:

"Nonsense! I would with pleasure, if it were a fan; but a foil—my dear lady, you wouldn't know how to handle that!"

"Indeed! I shouldn't know how to handle it?"

As she spoke, FrÉdÉrique laid her foil across Fouvenard's face, leaving a red mark which seemed to cut it in two. The bearded man flew into a rage; he seized the weapon she offered him, exclaiming:

"I no longer recognize your sex, and I will not spare you."

"And I will avenge my sex, and poor Mignonne!"

At the name of Mignonne, Fouvenard turned pale; but he prepared for the combat. Balloquet proposed to the little man that they should imitate us; he declined, saying that he considered it ridiculous for seconds to fight.

When I saw FrÉdÉrique cross swords with Fouvenard, I shuddered; I trembled for her safety.

"Come on, monsieur," said Saint-Bergame; "I didn't come here to admire madame's prowess; on guard!"

His words recalled me to myself. We began to fight. Saint-Bergame attacked me with violence. While defending myself, I listened to the other combatants. I fancied that Fouvenard uttered a cry of triumph. My adversary made the most of my distraction; I received a thrust which passed through the upper part of my left arm. That wound irritated, exasperated me; I attacked Saint-Bergame fiercely, and he soon fell at my feet; my sword had entered his breast.

I turned and looked for FrÉdÉrique. She had not been fighting for some time; in a few seconds, she had knocked Fouvenard's sword from his hand and wounded him in the side. He fell on the turf, and although his wound was trifling he had declined to fight any more.

The little man went to call one of the cabs. Balloquet assisted in placing Saint-Bergame inside, and he was so seriously wounded that the young doctor thought it best to accompany him and his seconds. I returned to Paris alone with FrÉdÉrique, who twisted a handkerchief round my arm and begged Balloquet to come to us as soon as possible.

In the cab, she put her arm around my neck, and insisted that I should rest my head on her shoulder. She gazed at me, gazed at me incessantly. Dear FrÉdÉrique! it seemed to me that we loved each other all the more dearly from having just escaped a great danger.

When we reached my lodgings, we found no one there but Pomponne, who wept when he saw that I was wounded. I had much difficulty in making him understand that it amounted to nothing. I lay on a couch; FrÉdÉrique seated herself beside me and made lint, expressing surprise at Mignonne's absence; for she relied upon her to nurse me zealously when she should be obliged to leave me. In about three-quarters of an hour Balloquet arrived.

"Monsieur Saint-Bergame is in for a long siege," he said, "if he escapes at all. He has his own surgeon, so I left him. As for Fouvenard, he will be all right in a fortnight; but what irritates him most is that blow across the face with the flat of the foil. That was so well laid on, that it is probable that our seducer will carry the mark of it all his life. Fichtre! madame, there's some strength in your hand!"

"Now, Monsieur Balloquet, please examine Charles."

Balloquet looked at my wound and dressed it, declared that there was not the slightest danger to be apprehended, but that it would be as well for me to keep my bed for a few days. I was about to obey my doctor, albeit with regret, when the doorbell rang violently. I supposed that it was Mignonne; but Ballangier appeared, pale as death and so excited that he could hardly speak.

"In heaven's name, what's the matter?" I asked; "what has happened?"

"Ah! a terrible misfortune, a—— Mon Dieu! are you wounded?"

"It's almost nothing. Pray go on."

"You urged me yesterday to watch over Mignonne. When I left you, as I was still disturbed by what you had said, I walked in the direction of her home. When I reached Rue MÉnilmontant, although I was persuaded that Mignonne had not gone out, as she had not been at your rooms at all that day, something impelled me to go and ask the concierge. 'Madame Landernoy isn't in,' she said; 'she went out this morning to go and work at Monsieur Rochebrune's, on Rue Bleue, as usual.'—I knew that she hadn't been here, so you can imagine my anxiety. I told that to the concierge. She shared my uneasiness. We waited. The evening passed, and the night, and Mignonne did not return. This morning I went to PÈre-Lachaise, where Mignonne often goes to visit her little girl's grave. I inquired there. The gate-keeper said that he did see her yesterday morning; he knows her well, she has such a gentle, courteous way! After passing half an hour, as usual, at her daughter's grave, she went away—to come here, no doubt. But since then she hasn't been seen."

"Mon Dieu!" cried FrÉdÉrique; "what can have happened to her?"

"What has happened to her!" cried Ballangier, clenching his fists frantically; "ah! I suspect, and so does Charles! There's a man—a vile scoundrel—who looks respectable, unfortunately; he's been watching Mignonne a long while. I thrashed him some time ago, but it seems that that didn't sicken him. I ought to have killed him then and there! When you come away from PÈre-Lachaise toward Paris, there are some deserted streets, nothing more than alleyways, where you don't meet anyone even in broad daylight. We don't know which streets Mignonne usually took, but he knew, no doubt; he must have been on the watch for her and abducted her, forced her into a cab. Here in Paris, with a little money one can always find a hundred vagabonds, miserable wretches, who are ready to do any rascally thing. It must be the man we met last night who has carried Mignonne off—it can't be anyone else; and you remember, Charles, when I pointed him out to you, how he was sneaking along, looking furtively on all sides, as if to see whether anyone was following him. And when he saw that you were looking at him, he scuttled away fast Oh! to think that if I had followed him then, I should know where Mignonne is! For he was going to her, I am sure of it! But you know the man, Charles; you told me last night that you knew him; you said: 'The day of reckoning must come some time.'—So tell me who he is, tell me where I can find him and kill him if he doesn't give Mignonne back to me!"

FrÉdÉrique and Balloquet gazed anxiously at me. Should I name that man? name him before her? Why should I spare the monster? Why should not his wife, as well as I, have the right to despise him utterly?

"The man who was watching Mignonne," I said, at last, "was your husband, FrÉdÉrique; it was Monsieur Dauberny."

Ballangier was stupefied. Balloquet was no less surprised. FrÉdÉrique, on the contrary, simply nodded her head, muttering: "I suspected as much!"—Then she said:

"But it isn't enough to be convinced, to know that it was he? How are we to prove it? How can we discover in what place, in what out-of-the-way corner of Paris, he has concealed Mignonne? If you should ask him, he would deny having had any hand in the young woman's disappearance."

"Just let me find your husband," I said; "tell me where I can see him and speak to him, and I am sure that he will deny nothing to me."

FrÉdÉrique looked at me in surprise; then she rose hurriedly, saying:

"I will go home at once; my presence will not rouse his suspicions. I will find out what he did yesterday and to-day; I will find out whether he is at home. If he is, I will send word to you instantly; and to prevent his going out, I will go to his apartment, I will ask for an interview on business—in short, I will keep him at home."

She said no more, but left the room at once. Then I said to Balloquet:

"You remember Annette—and that Bouqueton?"

"Yes, yes! Well?"

"Well, that Bouqueton was Monsieur Dauberny."

"What! the villain who——"

I put my finger on my lips and pointed to Ballangier, who was sitting with his head in his hands; it would have been cruel to add to his suffering. Balloquet understood me; but he could not sit still; he paced the floor excitedly, muttering:

"Ah! mon Dieu! but, in that case, we must make haste; we mustn't lose an instant! Poor young woman! Oh! it is ghastly to know that she is with him!"

We counted the seconds. Ballangier went again and again to the window. At last he cried:

"Here she is; she's coming back!"

"What a pity!" said Balloquet; "that means that her husband isn't at home."

FrÉdÉrique entered and dropped into a chair, exhausted and gasping for breath.

"Monsieur Dauberny isn't at home," she said; "but he passed the night there."

"He passed the night at home?" cried Ballangier.

"Yes; the concierge is certain of it; he saw him go in last evening, before dark, quite early in fact, and he is perfectly positive that he didn't go out again."

"His meeting with us must have made him uneasy," said I; "if he was going to where he is detaining Mignonne, he was afraid of being watched and followed; so he probably went home."

"That is probable. But he went out early this morning, saying that he was going to pass some time in the country, and might be away three weeks. Where shall we look for him? Where can we hope to find him now?"

We were in despair. Ballangier, who was in a most desperate frame of mind, was still ignorant of all that Balloquet and I feared for Mignonne, who, I was sure, would not yield to Monsieur Dauberny's desires.

For a long while we were silent, each cudgelling his brains to think how we could find Monsieur Dauberny's trail. Suddenly FrÉdÉrique cried:

"Ah! there is one hope!"

We all looked anxiously at her.

"During that trip of Monsieur Dauberny's, some time ago, one of his intimate friends, Monsieur FaisandÉ, came often to inquire for him. One day, he found only AdÈle at home, and he said to her: 'If Dauberny returns soon, tell him to come at once to Monsieur Saint-Germain's, at Montmartre—a small house, with a green door, on the left-hand side of the square.'"

"At Montmartre!" cried Ballangier; "he was going in that direction last night."

I rose and held out my arm to Balloquet, telling him to bind it up with a handkerchief.

"Come, messieurs, come," I cried; "this is a dispensation of Providence, let us not lose a minute!—You cannot go with us, FrÉdÉrique, but you will soon see us again, and something tells me that we shall bring Mignonne back with us."

Ballangier threw his arms about my neck and kissed me. FrÉdÉrique bound up my arm, whispering:

"You are wounded, and you are going out—when you need rest!"

"Oh! if my recovery is a little slower, that makes no difference. I want all those whom I love to be as happy as I am!"

"You are right, my friend. Go, but remember that I am waiting for you."

I took from my desk the ring that came from poor Annette; on it I rested all my hopes. I pressed FrÉdÉrique's hand, and we started. We took the first cab we saw, and I said to the driver:

"Montmartre, the public square. Take us there quickly, and you shall have five francs an hour."

We went like the wind, but the road seemed very long. At last we reached the square. I told the cabman to stop, and we all three alighted and turned to the left.

"That must be the place!" cried Ballangier, pointing to a small house of poor aspect, with a narrow green door.

"Stay in the square," I said to him, "and keep your eye on the house. If anyone comes out, run after him. You and I, Balloquet, will go in."

I knocked at the little green door; it was opened and we entered a narrow passageway, at the end of which was a small yard. A shrewish-looking woman, who was sitting in a dark corner, called out to us:

"Who do you want?"

"Monsieur Saint-Germain."

"He ain't in; he went away this morning, and won't be back to-day."

"Monsieur Bouqueton must be here, then, and what we have to say to his friend Saint-Germain, we can say to him just as well."

The woman looked at us distrustfully, then said:

"Yes, Monsieur Bouqueton's here—since this morning. Wait, while I go and call him. Go into that room; I'll tell him some friends of Monsieur Saint-Germain want to see him."

We entered a room on the ground floor, taking care not to go near the window, so that we might not be seen from outside.

After a few minutes, we heard heavy steps coming downstairs; they stopped at the door of the room in which we were, and Monsieur Dauberny appeared.

He gazed at us for several seconds in amazement; but, on scrutinizing me more closely, he seemed disturbed. However, he tried to recover himself, and said:

"What can I do for you, messieurs?"

"We have come in search of Mignonne Landernoy, a young woman whom you caused to be kidnapped yesterday morning as she was coming away from PÈre-Lachaise."

Dauberny could not control a sudden start; but he affected an air of tranquillity, and replied:

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean, monsieur. I suppose that you mistake me for somebody else."

"No, I know you quite well. Search your memory. You saw me once at your house in Paris; you are Monsieur Dauberny; Bouqueton is the name you assume in your love intrigues! I know you perfectly, monsieur, as you see!"

FrÉdÉrique's husband looked at me for some instants, then assumed a mocking expression, and rejoined:

"And you are my wife's lover—the man who lives with her at Fontenay-sous-Bois. You see that I know you too."

"If your wife has a liaison in which her heart is engaged, monsieur, your abominable conduct makes her only too excusable."

"Monsieur!"

"Let us have done with this! Where is Mignonne? Give that young woman up to us; we will not leave this house without her."

"I don't know what you mean, and I order you to leave the house."

Instead of complying, Balloquet and I walked up to Monsieur Dauberny, and I held before his eyes the hand in which was Annette's ring.

"What about this—do you know what this means?" I said.

At sight of the ring, Dauberny turned a greenish white and fell into a chair. Balloquet seized his arm.

"It was I," he said, "who attended the unhappy Annette, the woman you murdered! She is dead; but I received her full confidence, and we are familiar with your crime to its smallest details."

Dauberny could not speak. Great drops of sweat rolled down his forehead; he took a key from his bosom and held it out to us with a trembling hand, stammering almost inaudibly:

"On the second floor. Mignonne is on the second floor."

I motioned to Balloquet to stay with Dauberny, while I flew upstairs to the second floor. I found two doors; the one at the rear was locked. I opened it and found Mignonne on her knees, praying, in a corner of the room. When she heard the door open, she gave a shriek and ran toward the window; but I called her by name; she recognized my voice, and fell unconscious to the floor. Poor girl! joy sometimes kills. I took her in my arms and carried her downstairs. The air revived her; when we reached the yard, she opened her eyes and smiled at me.

"You have saved me again!" she cried.

Balloquet heard our voices and joined us. I told him to take Mignonne to the cab; then I returned to Dauberny, who was still in the lower room, pale and trembling, like a criminal awaiting his doom.

"Monsieur," said I, "we will hold our peace concerning your crime; but you must go away, leave France, and never let your wife see you again."

He motioned that he would obey me, and I made haste to join my friends.

Ballangier was like one mad with joy; he seized Mignonne's hands and kissed them, and I made haste to tell the young woman that but for Ballangier we should have known absolutely nothing of her abduction, and that he was her savior.

Thereupon she gave Ballangier her hand.

"Poor boy!" she said.

She told us that the night before, in a narrow, lonely street, two men, who doubtless were watching for her, had suddenly seized her and taken her to a cab which was waiting a few yards away. To prevent her crying out, one of them held a handkerchief over her mouth; but that precaution was unnecessary in the carriage, as terror had deprived her of the use of her senses.

On recovering consciousness, she found herself in the little house at Montmartre. A man, whom from her description I identified as FaisandÉ, was with her, and tried to allay her fears.

"You will see my friend Bouqueton to-night," he said. "You will come to an understanding with him, for he's a good fellow; he seems to be in love with you."

Mignonne threw herself at his feet, imploring him to set her free. He contented himself with locking her in a room, where the shockingly ugly old hag brought her food. The evening passed, and no one came. Mignonne did not close her eyes during the night. At last, about eight in the morning, another man, whom she recognized as the one who had insulted her on the street, appeared before her and informed her that she must be his mistress. Mignonne repulsed him with horror, and he left her, saying:

"Weep, shriek—it will do no good; you will be much wiser to make the best of it; we will dine together this evening, and I will pass the night with you."

Mignonne, alone once more, had determined to die rather than yield to that man; having no weapon, she had resolved to jump out of the window when he returned to her room. Then she prayed—and it was at that moment that I arrived. It was time.

At last we were at my rooms once more. FrÉdÉrique was awaiting us; she embraced Mignonne, then insisted that I should tell her all. I had not the strength to speak. The intensely exciting scenes that I had passed through had inflamed my wound; I was in terrible pain, and I swooned.