My readers have not forgotten the romantic episode that followed Jane's suicide. How happened it that our old friends Fanfar and Bobichel were near and able to save the life of Sanselme?

It is a very simple matter. Monte-Cristo had said to Fanfar, "I trust my son to you. You love me, love him, also. Be to him what you have been to me."

"Rely on me," Fanfar said, and Monte-Cristo went away, confiding in himself, in everything, and still more in the strange fatality which had always served him.

Fanfar kept his word. He watched everything that Esperance did. He had been told, also, not to permit this surveillance to be suspected unless some real danger made it necessary to disclose it.

The evening that Esperance went to Goutran's, Fanfar, accompanied by the inseparable Bobichel, had seen the young man enter his friend's house, he had seen him place Jane in the carriage, and finally had watched him walk away with Goutran.

Could there be anything more reassuring? Fanfar thought not, and in a state of perfect satisfaction they walked along the left shore of the Seine, where Fanfar had a little house in the Rue Bellechasse.

They were talking earnestly, when they heard loud cries for aid. They instantly plunged into the river and swam in the direction of the cries.

They were successful in their efforts, and saved the lives of both the man and the woman. Sanselme, however, had a brain fever, and the woman, Fanfar discovered, was insane. With her it was a passing delirium. Fanfar was greatly puzzled to know what to do with her. Who was she? Whence came she? There was nothing about her person which would elucidate the mystery. It was possible that she had escaped from some hospital, and Fanfar went to the Prefecture to make inquiries, but no such disappearance was registered there.

Fanfar naturally felt that there must be some connection between these two persons. Some frightful tragedy had been enacted. But he also felt that absolute secrecy was due the two unfortunates, till at last it was plain that there was no danger in revealing the adventure.

Days elapsed. Sanselme had terrible attacks of frenzy, and the woman, when she was able to move, had risen from her bed and gone to the door of her room, where she stood with terror and anguish imprinted on every feature, and if any one entered the room she would press both hands on her breast and utter a terrible shriek.

Finally Fanfar's wife had called him to see a scar on the breast of the unfortunate creature. She had certainly received a terrible wound, but when and where? The scar was not a new one.

Fanfar had sent Bobichel to the Vicomte's, for he had reproached himself that he had neglected Esperance in his interest for these two strangers. He sat near Sanselme's bed, and in the next room the mad woman was asleep, crouching on the floor near the door.

Fanfar looked at the man before him, and his unerring instinct told him that this livid, worn face had known not only great sorrow, but terrible remorse.

Sanselme said something. Fanfar leaned over him to hear more distinctly.

"My daughter; dead! dead!"

And these words were repeated over and over again. What did this mean? The woman Sanselme had saved was older than he; she could not be his daughter.

Fanfar said in distinct but soothing tones, "You have a daughter? You have lost her?"

"Yes, my Jane!"

Sanselme flung himself from one side of the bed to the other in intense agony, and Fanfar asked question after question. He could not tear from the man the smallest information.

Having taken a sedative the sick man fell asleep, but it was plain that his dreams were troubled. Fanfar took up a book, when he heard the door-bell, and Bobichel suddenly appeared all out of breath. He dropped on a chair, and seemed to be in great trouble.

"What is the matter?" asked Fanfar.

"Oh! such a dreadful thing has happened to Monte-Cristo's son!"

"To the Vicomte!" cried Fanfar, leaping from his chair. He seized Bobichel's arm rather roughly, and shaking it, cried, "Will you speak?"

"Yes, master, but I don't know how to tell you that the Vicomte has gone away."

"Gone away, and what of that?"

"But he has disappeared!"

"Who says so?"

"Old Madame Caraman and Coucon."

Fanfar passed his hand over his troubled brow. "My dear old friend," he said, "take pity on me, and tell me all you know; do not compel me to ask so many questions."

"Well, then, listen. You as well as I, became a little anxious because we had heard nothing of Monsieur Esperance for so long. I have found out that the night of the soirÉe, while we were saving those two old people in there, he was also doing something of the same kind."

"Did he not go home then, as we supposed?"

"Not he! He did not go home for over two hours, then he and Monsieur Goutran had a person with them who had been wounded—a young girl—she had been shot!"

"What preposterous tale is this?"

"It is true, sir. I did not believe it myself, at first, and as I felt sure you would doubt the story, I took the liberty of bringing the witnesses with me. Caraman and Coucon are here, sir."

"Oh! Bobichel, why could you not have said this before? Let me see them at once, and I swear that I will get at the truth!"

Fanfar, in addition to his impatience, felt a certain remorse. If any accident happened to Esperance he felt in a measure responsible.

Caraman and Coucon came in. They were in great trouble.

"My good friends," said Fanfar, taking Madame's hand. She was sobbing fit to break her heart, while Coucon was gnawing the ends of his moustache, in order not to imitate her example. "My good friends, I do not yet believe that what Bobichel tells me is true. He says that the Vicomte has disappeared."

"Yes, sir," growled Coucon.

"Then, Madame Caraman, this is no time for tears. Tears remedy nothing, and we must have all our wits about us."

Madame held out her arms to Fanfar, as she fell on her knees before him.

"I am the one in fault, and I shall never forgive myself."

"Pray tell me the whole."

"I have broken all my promises in not sending to you before, and yet all the time I had a presentiment of evil."

She wept and sobbed to such a degree that Fanfar could scarcely understand her, but he finally managed to soothe her. She had little to explain, however. She told how Esperance and Goutran had come in late at night, and brought with them a young girl who had been wounded by a pistol shot, and who seemed to be dying. How she herself had watched over this girl night and day. She told how, in obedience to the Vicomte, she had gone to lie down, being very weary and sleepy.

"I can't say how it happened," she sighed. "I had been greatly fatigued. I only meant to rest, not to sleep, but when I opened my eyes it was broad daylight. I jumped up, and ran to the door and listened, but all was silent; then I stole to the bed, I thought she was asleep, of course. Suddenly it occurred to me that the silence was too profound. I tore open the curtain, the bed was empty. At first I thought the girl might have been carried to some other room, she was too weak to walk, you understand, and perhaps Coucon had helped, so I went to him and he rubbed his eyes and yawned."

"Madame Caraman!" exclaimed Coucon.

"Yes, you did, and were as stupid as possible. At all events, he had heard nothing, seen nothing. Then I took it into my head that the Vicomte had taken her away. And—and—I can't tell you what I thought, but did not like to go to the Vicomte. I knew if she was in his room, that he would not like any one to know it. This was an infamous thought on my part, for she is a good girl, I am sure."

"Pray, go on with your story, my dear lady," said Fanfar, with a shade of impatience. "We are losing a great deal of precious time."

"You are right! Well, I finally decided to go to the Vicomte's door. He was sitting at the table studying some books on medicine, and I told him. Oh! how sorry I was for him. I had no idea that he would care, but he became deadly pale, and thrusting me aside, a little rudely I must confess, he ran to the room I had just left, and when he found I had told him the simple truth he went nearly crazy. Even if, as I first thought might be the case, the girl had an attack of delirium, she could not have opened the window, besides it was fastened inside. The doors were all bolted too. I did not know what to think. Monsieur Esperance was in such a rage that I don't like to think of him. But after all he was right, I had no business to sleep in that way."

"Go on; tell me about Esperance. When did he go away?"

"We have not seen him since last evening. He put his hat on his head, and went out without saying a word to us."

Fanfar reflected.

"You have no idea where he went?"

"Not the slightest. Oh! what will the Count say to us!"

"You have been very imprudent, but there is no use in recriminations. We must look for Esperance at once. Do you know how the girl was wounded?"

"No, but Monsieur Goutran does."

"I will go to him immediately."

"Oh! we have been there, and he has gone away for the day. Here is a little bag which we found in the young lady's room, and it may tell you something."

And Madame, as she spoke, handed Fanfar one of those little morocco bags so much in vogue to be hung at the belt. Fanfar opened the bag, and found a letter without address.

"We must look at this," he said.

The letter was only a few lines of thanks written to the young girl by Goutran, when she consented to sing at his soirÉe. The note began with the words "Miss Jane!"

"Miss Jane!" cried Fanfar, a sudden recollection flashing over him.

To this cry there was a response. The door opened, and Sanselme tottered in.

"Jane! Jane! Did you say Jane?"

Fanfar ran to his assistance.

"Don't trouble yourself about me," cried Sanselme. "Tell me, did I hear you speak the name of Jane?"

"That is certainly the name on this note," answered Fanfar, extending the paper in his hand, which Sanselme snatched from him.

"Yes, it is hers. It is my dau—" He stopped even in his delirium he had strength to conceal his secret. "It is Jane's," he added.

"Then you know this girl?" Fanfar asked, excitedly.

"Do I know her? Was it not she who wished to die? Was it not she whom I rescued?"

"No, calm yourself. You are mistaken. You must try and tell me what I wish to know. Terrible dangers threaten those whom perhaps we both love."

"Is Jane in danger?" asked Sanselme, frantically. "Let me go! I must leave this place at once."

He started from his chair, but his strength failed him, and if Fanfar had not caught him he would have fallen.

"Ah!" he half sobbed, "I might have known it! That wretch Benedetto is always a signal of misfortune to me."

"Who speaks of Benedetto!" said a hoarse voice.

Every one started. Before them stood the mad woman in torn and shabby garments, with her white hair in disorder. And as Sanselme looked up he saw her. A terrible cry escaped from his lips, and he recoiled with staring eyes riveted on the spectre before him.

"It is she!" he murmured. "The dead, it seems, are permitted to revisit the earth!"

The woman slowly approached Sanselme, and looked at him closely. She came so near that she could touch him, and then with a wild laugh, she screamed:

"The convict! Yes, it is he!"

And then, shuddering from head to foot, she repeated, "Benedetto! Who speaks of Benedetto?"

"What does all this mean?" asked Fanfar.

"I will tell you," said Sanselme, averting his eyes. "Yes, it is true, I am an escaped convict. This woman is right, but I never did her any harm. Look at me, woman! Tell me, was it I who struck you?"

The mad woman tore away the rags that covered the terrible scar on her breast.

"Oh! how it hurts," she said, moaning, "and how hot my head is."

"But who did it?"

The woman in a frightened whisper, answered:

"It was Benedetto—my son!"

A cry of horror escaped from every heart.

"Yes," exclaimed Sanselme, "and the wretch still lives. He assassinated his mother, and by what miracle she escaped, I know not. He—this Benedetto—is to-day in Paris. He has come to avenge himself on Monte-Cristo."

Fanfar questioned Sanselme, who avowed everything except that Jane was his daughter. He would not have admitted this had he been threatened with the guillotine. Fanfar listened attentively.

"It is as clear as day to me," he said, at last, "that all this is Benedetto's work. Therefore we will first find him, and of him we will demand an account of this new crime. Sanselme, you have been a great criminal. Are you ready to prove your repentance?"

"I will obey you in whatsoever you order. Save Jane, no matter what becomes of me."

"Then all of you will make ready for the fray. I will summon the Count of Monte-Cristo, as it was agreed I should do in case of danger. He will be here in three days, and we must be able to say to him that we have saved his son."

"Yes, we must say that," cried the Zouave, "or Coucon will be dead."

"To work then," said Fanfar, rising. "Sanselme, come into my cabinet, there are several questions I wish to ask. But first, who is this woman?"

"Benedetto never told me," answered Sanselme.

Fanfar went to the mad woman, who was crouching near the door.

"Who are you?" he said. "What is your name?"

She laughed in a stupid way.

"I have no name, I am dead!"