Sanselme rushed from the Maison Vollard. He seemed half wild with grief and rage. Where was he going? He knew not. Jane had gone without a word of farewell, and this man, whom we have seen unmoved amid all the horrors of Toulon, now wept as he ran. Whom should he ask? Two policemen passed, and, great as was Sanselme's terror of the police, he went up to them at once. Having by this time recovered his composure, he questioned them calmly. He was waiting for a lady, he was her intendant. As she was a foreigner, he was afraid she had gone astray.

One of the men replied, in a surly tone:

"If the lady has servants, how is it that she is out alone and on foot?"

To this natural remark Sanselme had no reply ready. He had been guilty of a great folly. He realized this now, and felt sure that he would be watched. Jane had no acquaintances in Paris. She had been out but twice, once to the charitable fÊte, when she sang and met with such success, and the second time was that same night.

Sanselme asked if Jane's mind could be affected. Could insanity come on thus suddenly? There was a secret in Jane's life, and he himself had seen her only a few hours before overcome with grief.

Sanselme went up and down the Champs ElysÉes for an hour. Suddenly he remembered that the Seine was not far off. Why had he not thought of this before? He hastened to the river side, but saw nothing to confirm his suspicions.

We will now disclose the secret tie between this man and Jane Zeld. Fifteen years before, the convict Sanselme had witnessed a terrible scene in a cottage at Beausset, a village between Toulon and Marseilles. A son had killed his mother, and then departed, carrying with him a large sum of money. Bad as was Sanselme, he shuddered at this terrible crime. He had aided in Benedetto's escape with the hope of receiving part of the money, but he repulsed the blood-stained hand that offered it.

"Be off with you or I will kill you!" he cried, and Benedetto fled. Our readers will remember how he was finally thrown up by the sea on the island of Monte-Cristo.

Sanselme remained alone with the corpse. The sun rose, and finally a ray crept over the face of the dead woman. Sanselme started. Perhaps she is not dead after all. He stooped and lifted her from the floor. Should he call for assistance? To do so was to deliver himself up as an escaped convict. And this was not all. He would be suspected of the murder. He would be led not to the galleys but to the scaffold.

"It would be useless for me to make any denial."

Still his humanity was large enough to induce him to run the risk, and he would probably have called for assistance had he not at that moment heard the sound of wheels. It was the priest returning home. Sanselme breathed a sigh of relief. Now he would have the aid he required. He would wait until the priest came up. The outer door stood wide open. It was through this door that Benedetto had fled. Sanselme heard the priest utter an exclamation of surprise, and then he went to his servant's door, and knowing her deafness knocked and called loudly to her to awake. This was Sanselme's salvation. He leaned from the window and caught a branch from the tree by which Benedetto had clambered to the upper room. This done, it was easy for Sanselme then to drop to the ground. He ran around the house instantly. He was saved. He hastily decided that Benedetto had taken the shortest road to the sea, and that he himself would try to get out of France by the eastern frontier.

We will not dwell on all he endured. But a month later, Sanselme, completely changed in appearance, entered Switzerland, going thence to Germany. Intelligent and active, he had no difficulty in obtaining employment. And Benedetto's crime seemed to have had a marvelous effect upon him. He seemed resolved upon repentance. For ten years, utilizing his acquaintance with foreign languages, Maslenes—he had taken this name—lived quietly in Munich. Not the smallest indiscretion on his part attracted the attention of the police. He was almost happy with these children about him, his pupils; but he was alone in his so-called home, and all at once a great longing came over him to see France once more. He was well aware that it would be a great imprudence on his part to return to his native land; he might be recognized, or some chance might reveal his past.

Nevertheless, he went. Ten years had elapsed since he crossed the frontier. He went first to Lyons, not daring to attempt Paris, although he chose a large city, believing that there he would incur less risk of being recognized. He had saved some money, and thought he could teach again. He had not been six months in Lyons before he was known as the good Monsieur Maslenes, and was liked by every one. He led the most regular life that could be imagined, and no one would have suspected that this stout, placid-looking person could be an escaped convict. He fully intended to live and die thus in obscurity, and really enjoyed the torpor of this existence. In the evening he took long walks, and from motives of prudence went out but little by daylight. Alone in the darkness, he often felt intense remorse, and remorse is not a pleasing companion.

One winter's night—the snow had been falling all day—Sanselme stayed out later than usual. The cold was sharp and there was no moon. Suddenly he heard an angry discussion across the street. Coarse voices and then a woman's tone of appeal. Sanselme did not linger, he had made it a rule never to interfere in quarrels. He feared any complication which should compromise him. But as he hurried on, he heard a wild cry for help.

"Oh! leave my child!" the woman cried. "Help! Help!"

Sanselme forgot all his prudence and ran in the direction of the cries. He found a woman struggling with three drunken men, trying to tear from them a young girl about thirteen, simply dressed. The girl was struggling, but oddly enough she did not utter a sound.

"Don't put on these airs, Zelda," said one of the ruffians, "let the little girl have a fling too. You have had yours."

In her struggle the girl dropped a box she carried. Tulles and laces were scattered over the ground. She saw Sanselme, and then for the first time she screamed for help. Then with one blow Sanselme felled the man who held the girl. He fell stunned to the ground. The child was free, and the two remaining scoundrels turned their attention to the defender. They were stout, strong fellows, with well-developed muscles, but they were no match for Sanselme. He hurled one against the wall and the other into the middle of the street.

"Be off with you!" said Sanselme.

"Oh! thank you, sir. But my mother, my poor mother!"

The woman had sunk upon the snow exhausted. The girl endeavored to lift her.

"Let me," said Sanselme. "Do you live far from here?"

This question, though so simple, seemed to agitate the girl. Sanselme now held her mother in his arms.

"Well! Where am I to go?"

She answered slowly:

"Two steps from there. The Rue Travehefoin."

"I don't think I know the street."

"Very possibly," stammered the girl. "I will show you the way."

She had returned the laces to the box, and then with a determined step led the way. A few feet from the Quai, where this scene had taken place, there was at this time a network of narrow, dark and wretched streets. It was in fact regarded as the worst part of the town. Sanselme did not care for this. He was happy that he had done some good at last. The girl turned into a lane that was very dark, in spite of the street lamp burning at the further end. The girl finally stopped before a tall house, from which came shouts of laughter and singing. The door was not close shut and the girl pushed it open. A stout woman stood just within.

"Upon my word!" she cried. "Did Zelda need two hours to—"

"My mother is dying," said the child, as she held the door wide open.

Sanselme appeared, carrying the inanimate form.

"Drunk again!" cried the stout woman.

"This woman is ill," answered Sanselme, roughly, who now understood the kind of a place he was in. "Get out of my way!" he added.

"Ill! Oh! what stuff. Come on, though. I will see to this to-morrow!"

And she took down a lantern from the wall and led the way up the creaking stairs. Two or three men came out of the lower room at the same moment.

"Is that Zelda?" they shouted. "Send her here to sing for us."

But the stout woman opened a door and Sanselme laid his burden on the bed. It was a sordid room in which he found himself. On the dirty walls hung some colored prints of doubtful propriety. On one was a dark stain, as if a glass of wine had been thrown upon it.

"Let me take off the quilt," said the woman, extending her hand to remove the ragged covering on the bed.

Sanselme, filled with disgust at her cupidity, answered:

"Let everything alone. I will pay whatever is necessary."

"Very good, sir; if you answer for it, that's all right."

"And now I want a physician," he added.

"A physician! Oh, that is nonsense. You must not be taken in in this way. She goes out every evening for her daughter, who is apprenticed to a milliner, and this time she took a drop too much, that is all!"

A bitter sob was heard from the girl, who sat with her hands covering her face.

Sanselme pitied the poor child. He took a twenty franc piece from his pocket.

"I want a doctor," he said, "and pray make haste."

"Very good, sir, since I see you are willing to pay him, and that it won't be left for me to do."

Sanselme was left alone with these two women. He was greatly annoyed that accident had brought him to such a house, and was half tempted to fly. He had done his duty and had defended the two women from their assailants. What more had he to do here?

The merest trifle would compromise his position, for Lyons, though a large city, is but a village; every trifle becomes known, and is commented upon and exaggerated.

He stood twisting his hat in his hands. Presently, with an air of decision, he tossed it on a chair.

"It won't do to be cowardly!" he said, half aloud.

This man, who had been so vicious, was now eager to do good. He must see the physician. But could he do nothing while awaiting his arrival? Whatever were the errors of this poor creature, she was a woman, and suffering. He did not know what she required. He turned to the girl.

"Mademoiselle!" he said, making his voice as gentle and paternal as possible.

She looked up, and for the first time he saw her. She was absolutely adorable, with her glossy, dark hair carried back plainly from her fair brow. How old was she? Sixteen, perhaps, but so slender that she looked younger.

"You must unfasten your mother's dress," said Sanselme, "that she may have air."

The girl looked at him as if she did not understand him. Oh! what shame and humiliation were in that young heart!

Sanselme understood, for he said:

"She is your mother, I believe?"

She rose quickly and went to the bed, and leaning over the woman, kissed her brow. This was her answer to Sanselme's question. She then loosened the sick woman's garments. Feeling her child's hands, and able to breathe better, the woman said:

"Do not touch me; I am in agony!"

That was the beginning of delirium.

"I am cold!" she cried. "Why do you put ice on my feet?" and she started up so suddenly that her daughter could not hold her.

"Help me, sir," the girl cried to Sanselme.

He ran to her assistance. He was astonished to see that the woman was not more than thirty-five, but her eyes were haggard, and she bore the marks of precocious old age.

She uttered a shriek so wild and despairing that it curdled the blood in Sanselme's veins, and as he looked her full in the face, he trembled from head to foot.

The doors opened; it was the physician, who looked utterly disgusted that he should have been called to such a place. He entered noisily, without removing his hat, and as he caught sight of the sick woman, looking like an inspired Pythoness, he said roughly:

"Come, now, lie down."

She looked at him with evident terror, and then, docile as a child, she lay down on the bed.

The physician made a rapid examination.

"There is nothing to be done," he said; "this woman is at the end of her rope."

"For Heaven's sake, sir, be quiet!" whispered Sanselme, angrily. "The woman hears you, and you will kill her!"

The Doctor took off his spectacles and closed them with a snap; then looking at Sanselme from head to foot, he said:

"You are much interested in Madame. A relative, I presume?"

"That is none of your affairs, sir. I beg you to confine yourself to writing your prescriptions, and I will see that you are paid."

The physician was impressed by the tone in which these words were uttered. He wrote the prescription and went away. Then Sanselme said he would go for the medicine. He was absolutely livid and could hardly stand. He returned in twenty minutes, and met the mistress of the house on the street, where she was waiting.

"Look here!" she said; "I don't like all this in my house, and I am going to bundle Zelda off to the Hospital. I don't want her to die here."

Sanselme hardly heard her.

"Tell me," he said, hastily, "what this woman's name is."

"That is easy enough; I have her papers. It is something like Zeld, and we have got to calling her Zelda—it is more taking, you know."

"Yes, I see; but do you know anything of her past?"

"Not much."

"She has a daughter?"

"Yes, which is not at all pleasant for us. Of course, the child can't live here; she stays across the street. Zelda goes every night to the shop for her. It is nonsense, of course, for she will go the same way as her mother in the end."

"Will you show me the papers?" asked Sanselme, "and I will do all I can for this woman."

"Help me to get rid of her! That is all I ask."

"Rely on me."

Sanselme presently had the papers in his hands. The sick woman's name was Jane Zeld. She came from a little village in Switzerland, near Zurich. There was also a paper dated many years since, signed by her father, authorizing her to reside in the Commune of Selzheim, in Alsace. Sanselme turned sick and dizzy; he caught at the wall for support.

"What on earth is the matter?" asked the old woman.

He stammered a few incoherent words. Then in a measure recovering himself, he said:

"I give you my word that I will take her away in the morning."

"But if she should die in the night! However, I am too kind-hearted for my own good. She may stay here to night. But who will take care of her?"

"I will," answered Sanselme; "but I must beg that you will take her daughter out of the room."

"I can give her a bed in the closet next her mother's room. But you know if it were known, I should get into trouble, because she's a minor."

They returned to the sick room. Zelda seemed calmer. The daughter was crouched upon the floor at the side of the bed. Sanselme spoke to her gently.

"My child," he said, "I will take care of your mother to-night. You are tired, and a room is ready for you."

"No! no!" cried the child. "I cannot stay here to-night, unless I am in my mother's room."

And she looked so horrified that Sanselme was silent. He realized what this young creature must feel at the terrible life led by her mother. When the girl understood that the room she was to have could be reached only through that occupied by her mother, she said no more, but she seemed to shrink from the very air she breathed.

The unhappy Zelda had fallen into a state of prostration, that rendered her unconscious of all that was going on about her. Her daughter went to her side.

"Do not disturb her," said Sanselme, "she is asleep."

For the first time the girl looked him full in the face. "You are very kind," she said. "You knew my mother then?"

"Oh! no," answered Sanselme, eagerly, "but you are very tired, and some one must stay with her to-night."

He spoke with a certain hesitation, as if he were telling a falsehood. The girl was too innocent to notice this manner.

"If my mother wakes you will call me. Poor mamma! she is so kind."

"I will call you, I give you my word," Sanselme answered.

And the girl left the room, and in some ten minutes Sanselme heard her regular breathing; tired Nature asserted herself.

Then he turned to the bed. From the rooms below came shrill laughter and the rattle of glasses. They cared little down there whether this poor creature lived or died. She was dying, of this Sanselme felt sure. He began to walk up and down the room, occasionally stopping at the side of the bed, as if seeking to discover in this pale, drawn face some forgotten image.

It was very cold, and the light was dim; by degrees the house became quiet. He sat in the one chair in the room buried in thought. Suddenly the sick woman began to toss on her bed. He went to her, and said, gently, "Are you in pain?"

"No."

"Then try to sleep."

"Sleep!" repeated the poor creature, and then, without any apparent reason, she said to herself, over and over again, "Accursed! Accursed!"

Then she began to whisper. She raised herself in her bed, and was terrible to look upon. "I was a good girl," she said, "more than that, I was an innocent one. I used to go to confession. I was told to do so."

Sanselme listened with beads of sweat on his brow. He determined to drink the cup to the dregs. "Yes," he said, "go on. It was at Selzheim."

"Selzheim! yes. Oh! how sweet it was there. There was a mountain, and a lovely brook where I bathed my feet when I was a little thing."

"And a Square and a fountain," whispered Sanselme.

"Yes, how gay it was there, when we all played together. And then he came, all in black. We thought him so kind and good. He was the curÉ, you know."

Sanselme started back.

"And when he said to me, 'Jane, why do you not come to confession?' I told him the truth, and said it was because I had nothing to confess."

"Go on! go on!" said Sanselme.

Further doubt was impossible, he was himself the infamous priest. He fell on his knees, and sobbed and wept.

The dying woman continued: "I went to confession as the curÉ bade me, and—"

But we will not dwell on this terrible story as told by these dying lips. The priest abused his trust. His superiors knew the truth, but with that esprit de corps, which is in fact complicity, simply removed him and avoided all open scandal. His victim remained in the village. And because of his crime, she was condemned and despised. She was driven away, and gave birth to her child. And then, to live and to give bread to this child, she had become what she was.

Sanselme took the hand of the dying woman.

"And the child?" he asked. "Where is she?"

The woman looked at him with her big dark eyes. For the first time she seemed conscious of his presence. And suddenly, in spite of the lapse of years, she recognized him. She shrank away with a frenzied shrink.

"Yes, it is I! pardon me!" and Sanselme sank on his knees; "and tell me, I implore you, where the child is?"

She did not speak, she could not. She stretched out her hand, and pointed to the room where her daughter was.

"And she is my child?" cried Sanselme.

"Yes," answered the dying woman. And as if this simple word had snapped the mainspring of life, she fell dead on the floor.

He lifted her and laid her on the bed, and then the wretched man, crushed under the weight of his shame, dared to pray.

When morning broke he knocked on the door of the next room. The girl awoke with a start and ran out.

"Your mother is dead," he said, gently.

The next day Sanselme laid the poor woman in her grave. Then he said to the girl:

"I knew your mother. Before she died she made me promise never to desert you. Will you come to me?"

Jane Zeld was utterly crushed. She had no will of her own. Where else could she have gone? She felt herself surrounded by a circle of crime. As long as her mother lived, the affection she received from her made her forget sometimes the sinister truth. But when she was alone in the world, she felt absolutely crushed by this ignominy. Pure as she was it seemed to herself that her mind was smirched.

Sanselme had come to a grave decision. He left Lyons and took Jane with him, she having no idea of the reason of his devotion. He called himself her intendant, and was anxious to perform the most menial offices, and in these felt as if he were in a measure making amends for the past. He had one aspiration, that of paternal martyrdom. Gently and with paternal affection Sanselme soothed the girl's shame and despair. He had preserved much of the persuasiveness of a priest, his language stirred and softened at one and the same time. But now every word that he uttered was sincere.

Jane remained excessively sad.

Sanselme had saved several thousand francs. What should he do with Jane? He had left Lyons, hoping that a change of scene would go far toward restoring cheerfulness to Jane. Vain hope. She never forgot her mother, nor that mother's life. She learned with marvelous rapidity. Study was her best distraction. From this Sanselme hoped much. He taught her himself all that he had formerly learned, and wondered at the progress she made.

The merest accident revealed to him Jane's amazing talent for music. If Art should take hold of her and absorb her entirely, she would forget and enter a new life.

She studied music thoroughly, and Sanselme took care, living as they were, in Germany at that time, that she should constantly hear good music.

Her memory was prodigious, her voice exceptionally true, her taste perfect. Sanselme felt that here was safety for him.

At the end of a few years Jane, now become a great artist, went with her benefactor to Paris.

Their position toward each other was in no degree modified. He was very respectful in his manner, and always kept a certain distance between them. He did not wish her to know anything more about herself than that she was the daughter of the wretched Zelda.

By degrees the recollection of Lyons seemed to fall from the mind of Jane. Never was there the most distant allusion ever made to her mother, and the girl never spoke of her.

This silence astonished Sanselme, and troubled him as well. He had studied Jane so closely that he thoroughly understood her character, her goodness, unselfishness and passionate gratitude. He knew that she had not forgotten her mother, and would never do so, and that the reason she never mentioned her was because her pain and shame were quite as acute as ever. Jane's character was a singular mixture of audacity and timidity. It was her own proposition that she should offer her services at the concert, and when Sanselme proposed that she should go to Sabrau's, the artist, she had not hesitated in doing so.

She sought to distract her mind, for she was haunted by a spectre. She had a ghastly fear that she might be tempted to lead the life her mother had led.

The theatre, so often calumniated, would be her safeguard, and in her pride as a great artist she would forget the past. It was her salvation, her glory, and the path to fortune. She would be respected, honored and happy. These were the dreams in which Sanselme indulged. Perhaps, too, some honest man would give her his name, and that of Jane Zeld would be merged in a happy matron.

It was with great joy that he took Jane to the reception at the artist's, and here basked in the admiration and respect she received. If she would but consent to go on the stage her fortune was secured—but hitherto she had refused even to listen to this plan.

That evening Sanselme had been shocked to meet Benedetto. The spectre of his past again arose before him, but he thought it impossible that Benedetto should recognize him. He had been guilty of one imprudence. When he heard the name of the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo, he remembered the rage of Benedetto at Toulon, and how he had sworn to be avenged on him.

A secret instinct warned Sanselme that Benedetto would wreak his vengeance on the son of his enemy, and concealed behind the curtain he had given Esperance the warning that had so startled him. Then he hurried away, aghast at what he had done. What was the young Vicomte to him? What did he care for Benedetto's hates?

When the fire caught Jane's robe, he had been a witness of the energetic promptness shown by the young man, and then he said to himself that he was glad he gave the warning. And when they returned home that night, Sanselme had never been in better spirits; it seemed to him that a great Future was unfolding before him. To his surprise he found Jane weeping. For the first time she had spoken angrily, but Sanselme would have forgiven her if she had struck him.

He saw that memory still haunted her, that there was no peace or rest for her. He wanted her to travel, but the money, where was he to get money? And it was while tortured by these thoughts that Benedetto appeared to him.

And this was not all. Benedetto knew his secret, and now, as if all this were not enough, Jane herself had vanished. It was more than human energy could support.

While Sanselme stood on the bridge absorbed in these wretched thoughts, he heard a quick, running step. His well-trained ear could not be deceived. It was a woman's step—if it were she? He started forward. It was dark, and he could see nothing, and the steps were dying away. He ran on toward the Pont de Jena, and presently he heard the steps again, and before him on the bridge was a dark shadow. Was it Jane?

He called, "Jane, my child!"

Then he saw the shadow spring to the parapet, and something black passed between him and the sky—the splash of water, and all was still.

"Too late!" cried Sanselme, "but I will save her." And he in his turn leaped into the water. He was a vigorous swimmer, as will be remembered by our readers.

When he rose to the surface after his plunge, he looked around, and at some distance beheld a dark spot. He swam toward it and seized the woman's arm. She was just sinking. And now this man was so overwhelmed with emotion, that the blood rushed to his brain and his limbs were almost paralyzed. Fortunately the shore was not far away, but the woman clung convulsively to him.

He called for aid, but all was silent and dark. He knew that he was sinking, and that the end was near. Suddenly a voice shouted:

"Courage! we are coming." And two men appeared swimming vigorously.

"I have one, Bobichel!"

"And I have another, Monsieur Fanfar."

With their burthens our old friends reached the shore.

"God grant that it is not too late!" said Fanfar, kneeling by the side of the two inanimate forms. "What had we best do?"

"Take them up on our shoulders, sir, and carry them along. Fortunately, the house is not far off."

And Bobichel threw Sanselme over his shoulder as easily as if he had been a bag of meal, while Fanfar took the woman. They stopped at a small house not far from the Quai; every blind was closed; Fanfar uttered a peculiar cry.

"Is that you?" asked a woman's voice.

"Myself," answered Fanfar.

The door opened, and presently the two bodies were laid on the floor.

Fanfar took a lamp and looked at them.

"I saw this man at the door where we stood to-night," said Bobichel.

"Yes, I saw him, too," answered Fanfar. "But who can this woman be?"

She was an old woman, with white hair.

"We must all go to work. Madame Fanfar, we want your help; hot linen and flannels, if you please!"