We have left the Marquis and his most excellent servant Cyprien going toward Vagney, but it was not without anxiety that they ventured on this expedition. Both these men valued their lives highly, and felt no fears of ordinary foes, but with an inundation no cunning would prevail. Cyprien was extremely uncomfortable, and held his breath to listen to the rush of waters. He heard it soon enough, and saw it too. The water looked brown and had a silver foam upon it, but high as was the torrent it was still confined to its rocky bed. The intendant's courage returned. The Marquis stopped short to look at the cataract in admiration, but Cyprien urged him on, for it was growing late.

Suddenly, Cyprien laid his hand on the arm of the Marquis, who started. Criminals are subject to these involuntary starts.

"We are here," said Cyprien.

"Ah!" answered the Marquis.

"Do you see on that side hill a tiny house, which seems to hold its equilibrium almost by a miracle? It is there that we shall find Pierre Labarre."

"But he may not be at home?"

"He never goes out, this hermit." And Cyprien laughed.

The house that Cyprien pointed out was much more like a hut—it consisted of one story. Before the door were two or three worn stone steps. The door was of oak, and looked strong. On each side of the door was a window, which had heavy shutters that could be bolted at night. These were now open.

There was not a sound nor a movement about the house, at the back of which was an enclosure of moderate dimensions most carefully cultivated.

The Marquis hastened on, impatiently. He struck two or three blows with his cane on the door.

A voice within called out, "Who is there?"

The two accomplices exchanged a glance. Their expedition promised well.

"The Marquis de Fongereues."

Instantly the door opened, and an old man appeared. It was the man whom we saw in the Black Forest in the beginning of our narrative, the man who then escaped from the assassin, and who told the old Marquis of Simon's retreat. But the ten years that had since elapsed had left their traces on his brow; and perhaps it was not years alone that had lined his brow, faded his eyes, and bent his form. His face was sad—a shadow rested upon it.

"Enter, sir," said the former servant of the Fongereues family.

The room into which the Marquis stepped was simply furnished—one corner was curtained off.

"Please be seated, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Pierre.

"I am forced to believe, Pierre," answered the Marquis, "that in the nine years that have elapsed since my father's death you have forgotten your good breeding. Will you kindly remember that my title is the Marquis de Fongereues?"

Pierre held himself more erect. His face was like one of Rembrandt's pictures, where each wrinkle hides a thought.

"I know but one Marquis de Fongereues!" he said, slowly.

"And who may that be?" asked the Marquis, bringing his closed hand down upon the table.

"The son of the man who was murdered in 1815, in the village of Leigoutte!" answered Labarre, with perfect calmness.

"Murdered! That man fell when fighting against the true masters of France!"

"Your brother, Monsieur le Vicomte, was killed by those who had sworn his death, and who struck him down, when, in defending his country, he was doing his duty!"

The Marquis could hardly contain himself, his rage was so great. Cyprien feared an explosion. He had no objection to the man being killed, but not until he had been made to speak.

"Let that pass!" said the Marquis, at last. "It is needless to awaken these memories." Then lowering his voice he added, with an affectation of pity:

"It was a terrible affair, Pierre, and I understand that an old and faithful servant must have felt it deeply—the father, mother, and two children to die at the same time!"

"You are mistaken," answered Labarre. "The father was shot, the mother perished in the flames, but the two children escaped."

"It is strange that you can persist in this illusion, Pierre. Simon's two children are dead."

The old man answered.

"No—they are living!"

The Marquis forgot himself:

"Ah! you know, then, where they are?"

"No; but your exclamation proves that you yourself do not believe in their death."

Fongereues bit his lips.

Cyprien shrugged his shoulders. He felt a little contempt for his master and doubted. The Society of Jesus would never trust him with a mission of diplomacy. He thought it was time for him to interfere.

"It seems to me, sir," he said to the Marquis, "that absolute certainty in this matter is impossible. I have made the most careful search without the smallest success, though I had no difficulty in finding this house."

"Ah! it was you, then, who discovered my retreat?" And Labarre shook his head.

"That is enough!" interposed the Marquis. "Labarre, all this is useless. Give me your attention. I am about to speak of the honor of the Fongereues family."

Labarre's pale face was lighted by a smile as he repeated the words: "The honor of the Fongereues family!"

The Marquis shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"Cyprien," he said to his intendant, "you can leave us!"

Cyprien was astonished. This was no part of the programme, but he remembered that he could return, and also that he could listen.

As soon as the Marquis was alone with Labarre, an entire transformation took place in his manner. He seemed to throw aside a mask. He seized Labarre's hand, who shrank from the contact.

"Listen to me, Pierre, and for God's sake throw aside this distrust, which is an insult to me. You were the friend and the confidant of my father, you knew his secret thoughts, and you know that he did not love me. I am ready to admit that my father had reason to be offended at many of my acts and many of my words. I was young, and very reckless. You see, Pierre, that I am speaking to you with entire frankness. God forgives the penitent. Are you harsher than He?" He felt the hand he held tremble in his grasp. "Guilty though I be," continued the Marquis, "great as have been my faults and my errors, I bear to-day the name of my father, and that name, Pierre Labarre, will be forever dishonored unless you come to my assistance!"

"I do not understand," said Labarre. "I am an old man and poor. What can I do for you?"

"I will tell you. I am ruined, my influence is lost. This is not all—I am crushed under the weight of engagements so heavy that were I to give up every sou I have in the world, and reduce my wife and my son to beggary, I could not release myself and save my honor!"

Labarre did not speak.

"I have tried every plan," continued the Marquis, "and—hear me, Pierre—I have gone too far. What would you say, Pierre, if the name of your old master should be borne by a forger?"

Pierre did not evince the smallest emotion.

"Well?" said the Marquis, breathlessly.

"What do you want of me?" asked Pierre.

"I will tell you. I know that my father, in order to reserve for Simon a portion of his fortune, and fearing, with the suspicion of an old man, that in some way he would lose it, made a will, which he gave to you——"

"Go on, sir."

"This will contains a secret—it tells where this money reserved for Simon is concealed. This will gives direction that only Simon, or his heirs, shall receive this will. Simon is dead, his children have disappeared. Your duty is plain. This money now amounts to two millions, at least. What was always my father's first wish? Was it not to preserve his family name without a spot or blemish? Give me this will. Without this money I am dishonored!"

The old man released his hand and crossed the room. He stopped before the dark curtain, and then, with a solemn gesture, lifted it. The Marquis leaned forward. This was what he saw: A sheet of iron was fastened to the wall. It was twisted and out of shape. Strange lines were upon it, as if flames had licked it.

"Do you know what that is?" said Labarre.

"No," answered the Marquis, surprised and uneasy.

"I will tell you. Among the Vosges mountains there lived a man, honest and kindly. He was loved by all. He kept an inn, and taught the children of the peasants, to whom he sold wine. Yes, and this man bore one of the noblest names in France. One day cowards killed him, and at the same time other scoundrels and cowards, in obedience to fratricidal commands, attacked the house where he had so long struggled against poverty; other villains again attacked his wife and tried to kill his children. This, Monsieur de Talizac, is the sign that hung on the front of the inn kept by Simon, Marquis de Fongereues, and I defy you, his brother and his murderer, to repeat to me what you have already said in the face of this witness. Pray and entreat, if you will, if you dare—I, the lacquey of your father, reply: Cain! you are stained with the blood of your brother—begone!"

The Marquis uttered a yell of rage.

"Your memory is short, Monsieur de Talizac, and I will remind you that in 1817, one night the good man whom you killed with your infamy lay dying. You had the cruel courage to enter his room, and knelt at the side of his bed——"

"Be silent!" cried the Marquis.

"My master cursed you, cursed you as a murderer! It was a horrible scene—I saw and heard it all. You implored this dying man to have mercy on you and tell you where this money was placed. But my master did not yield, nor will I!"

Deadly pale, and with compressed lips, the Marquis murmured:

"Then you refuse?"

"I refuse—the son of Simon de Fongereues is living!"

"And if he be dead—am I not the sole heir?"

"I do not know."

"You have no right to keep back a will. Once more I ask—will you speak?"

"I will not!"

"Very well. The will is here; we will take it!"

The Marquis whistled, and Cyprien appeared.

"We must help ourselves," said the Marquis.

"All right!" answered the lacquey.

Strangely enough, this man who looked so infirm now bounded back and placed himself behind a table. He drew from his pockets two pistols, which he pointed toward his adversaries.

"Monsieur de Talizac," he said, "you tried to kill me once before, in the Black Forest—take care!"

Fongereues had no arms. Cyprien had been wiser. He, too, drew a pistol, but before he could touch the trigger, Pierre had opened the door behind him.

"For a valet," he said, "a dog is all that is required."

A dog of the Vosges, as large as a wolf, with bloodshot eyes and bristling hair, flew at Cyprien's throat, who fell on the floor.

"Help! Help!" cried the scoundrel.

The Marquis, livid with terror, had succeeded in opening the door.

"Here, CliepÉ! Here!" shouted Pierre.

The dog gave Cyprien another furious shake, and dropped him. He rolled himself out of the door. Pierre flung it to and bolted it.

"Farewell!" he cried. "You will get your punishment in another world!"

And from his window he watched two black shadows fleeing toward Saint-AmÉ.