The situation was indeed a terrible one. Bobichel's words were true.

When Fanfar fell as if dead, it was supposed that it was an attack of apoplexy, and some good people ventured to call it a judgment from heaven for his crimes. Others again spoke of poison, and arraigned the governor of the prison for carelessness. There was one physician among those who were called in who could not agree with the others. He used a number of scientific expressions, but the fact remained the same—Fanfar was dead. But there was so much discussion that a post-mortem examination was deemed essential. The body, therefore, was carried on a litter to the hospital, where he was examined by a crowd of curious medical students, who declared that he was so splendidly developed that he ought to have lived to be a hundred years old.

A messenger was sent to Dr. Albant, and the dissecting table was prepared.

This time the plan of the heroes of the right had failed. Fanfar was alive, but he would certainly be killed now, as his torpidity was so great that he would not utter a cry or a groan until the instruments touched some vital organ.

The door opened and Dr. Albant, a handsome old man, entered with smiles and nods. He removed his coat and tied on a large apron. Trying the edge of his scalpel on his nail, he turned to the students and physicians, and began to talk of the German method of conducting a post mortem.

"We French, however, begin here," he said, lightly placing his scalpel on the tender flesh.

"Dr. Albant!" cried a stentorian voice.

The surgeon turned. A messenger in the king's livery stood in the doorway.

"Gentlemen, excuse me—the king communicates with me!"

A close observer would have thought it singular that the king should send a letter by an ordinary servant, like a simple bourgeois. But this did not seem to strike Dr. Albant, who, with a face beaming with smiles, turned to the students, saying:

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but the king demands my presence."

"But the autopsy?"

"Oh! that may be given up. This man died from cerebral congestion—I see it as plain as day!"

As he spoke he tore off his apron, and got himself into his coat again with all possible speed.

"Bury the man at once!" he said as he left the room. A carriage awaited him at the door, and he drove off.

The royal messenger waited a moment and then he, too, walked away, and going down a narrow alley he entered a little wineshop by a back door, and throwing himself on a bench, exclaimed:

"I was just in time, Bobichel. A second later and Fanfar would have been no more!"

The hospital was now anxious to get rid of this useless body, and orders were given that it should be buried without delay. Gudel and his friends had bribed the functionaries.

All went smoothly, and in an hour the hearse was to take Fanfar away. But before this, a card was brought in to the governor of the hospital. On this card was the name of the Marquis de Fongereues, and in the corner of the glossy bit of pasteboard was a tiny sign, which signified that his visitor was especially recommended by the Society of which he was a member. He gave orders that the Marquis should be shown in at once.

Fongereues appeared, leaning on the arm of Pierre Labarre. The Marquis had suddenly grown old, his strength was gone, and his feet were as uncertain as those of a drunken man.

The governor rose to receive him. Fongereues tried to speak, but his voice died in his throat. He handed the governor an order from the minister, directing that the body of the man named Fanfar should be surrendered to the Marquis de Fongereues.

Our readers will notice that the promised million had already borne fruit in the granting of the first request made by the Marquis, who had laid aside his ambition and thought only of recovering the body of his son in return for the million.

"Can I see the body?" asked the Marquis.

The governor bowed assent and led him to the room where Fanfar still lay. Fongereues looked down on the noble features and manly form. How entirely they differed from those of the son for whom the Marquis had sacrificed everything. The Marquis knelt in silence for some minutes, while Labarre shed bitter tears.

"What does the Marquis propose to do?" asked the governor, who did not understand this scene, and was becoming impatient.

Labarre said, in a low voice, "The men will come up with a bier."

In a few minutes Fanfar's body was carried to the HÔtel de Fongereues and laid by the side of the Vicomte.

Labarre made no attempt to resist this caprice of the Marquis. The old servant, now that De Fongereues showed such humility and grief, had become his devoted servant.

The Marquis asked for his wife, and was told that she had left the hÔtel alone and on foot.

"Pierre," said the Marquis, "I must say a few words to you. With the exception of this million I have required at your hands, the fortune which should have been Simon's must be given to his daughter. Tell her the whole truth; it is only just. Watch over this girl, proclaim her right to the name and property of our house. When I am dead do not lay me in French soil—I am not worthy of France—but place me where I am unknown and unheard of. You will obey these wishes?"

Labarre answered, solemnly, "I will obey them."

"Very good; we will start to-night for the chÂteau, and there side by side we will bury the two sons whom I have murdered."

While Fongereues, crushed under the weight of his remorse, was thus announcing his last wishes, another scene was taking place in the hospital. Gudel and Bobichel had applied for Fanfar's body.

"Too late!" answered the concierge. And the two men heard with consternation that Fanfar had been taken away. And where? No one knew.

Delay was inevitable. Gudel and the former clown went out into the street and there abandoned themselves to their distress.