Goutran had not seen the face of the burthen borne by Esperance, who had uttered no name, and whose movements had been so rapid that Goutran had some difficulty in overtaking him.

Where did Esperance propose to go? He had not asked himself this question. Goutran ran after him.

"Where are you carrying that dead body?" he shouted.

Esperance stopped short. "Was she dead?" he asked himself. "No, no," he cried, "she lives—she breathes! She must not die!"

"Do you know this woman?" asked Goutran. Suddenly he started back.

Jane was still wrapped in the oriental stuff. He remembered the material.

"Good heavens!" he cried, "what does this mean? It is Jane!"

They reached the avenue, and looked about for a carriage, but none was to be seen.

"Where are we to take this poor thing?" said Goutran.

"To my rooms," answered Esperance. "But I am afraid she will die in my arms!"

"I will hasten on and arouse the servants, and have everything prepared."

"Yes, by all means. I am strong, and shall be there almost as soon as yourself."

In a very few minutes they reached the hÔtel, which Goutran opened with a key given him by Esperance. They entered the corridor that led to the rooms formerly occupied by HaydÉe.

Esperance, with infinite precautions, laid Jane on the bed.

The girl's hair had fallen loose, and its darkness made an admirable background for her delicate features.

When Esperance saw this frail form thus inert, and the blue-veined lids closing the eyes, he yielded to his emotion and sobbed like a child. He was very unlike his father, and in these few moments he probably suffered more than his father had ever done.

Goutran, in the meantime, had lighted the room, then coming to the side of the bed, he leaned over the girl.

"Esperance!" he said, "rouse yourself, if you wish to save her!"

With a violent effort Esperance resumed his self-control.

"Ah! you are right, my friend. But if Jane is dead, I shall die also, for I love her—I love her!"

And he uttered these words in a tone of such sincerity that Goutran understood the whole.

"We must see the wound," continued Esperance, "for I am something of a physician."

Goutran gently removed the shawl, and on the left bosom there was a small, dark spot. Esperance listened for the beating of her heart. There was a moment of terrible suspense. At last Esperance rose from his knees.

"She is living," he said, in a grave voice. "Goutran, go to my room and bring me a small sandal-wood case on the chimney-piece."

Esperance spoke now with absolute calmness. He was himself once more. When alone with Jane he took her head in his hands.

"Why," he said in his low, harmonious tone, "why did you wish to die? You shall live, Jane, and nothing shall ever separate us more!"

He pressed his lips to Jane's. This kiss was an oath. Would Esperance keep it?

Goutran returned with the case.

"Shall I not call some one?" asked the young man.

"No, not yet," Esperance replied.

He opened the box and took out an instrument.

"My hand does not tremble, does it?"

"No," said the painter, "it is perfectly firm."

Then, entirely master of himself though deadly pale, Esperance probed the wound.

Goutran watched every movement and studied his face. It was a strange scene. Jane, with her fair bosom all uncovered, seemed to sleep.

"Goutran," said Esperance in a whisper, "the ball has not gone far—I can touch it! Give me the case again," he said presently. He selected other instruments. "I have it!" exclaimed Esperance, and the ball was in his hand.

As he spoke the kind face of Madame Caraman appeared at the door. For the last twenty minutes she had heard footsteps over her head in the room of the deceased Countess, which no one ever entered except the Count, and now she beheld a stranger on the bed in this sacred room.

"Madame Caraman," said Esperance, "here is a lady accidentally wounded. I beg of you to take care of her—do all that her condition requires."

"Poor soul!" cried the good woman. "What does it all mean?"

"I am just about to dress the wound. Do not be frightened. One word, however—I do not wish any one to know that she is here. You will treat her as if she were my sister."

"Of course, sir, of course, but am I to say nothing to the Count?"

"He is away, I know not where. I desire the secret to be kept punctiliously."

"Yes, sir, on one condition."

"A condition? And what may that be?"

"It is that, like your father, you will call me Mamma Caraman—not Madame!"