Francine's chamber is dark. The little bed with its white curtains looks as if it were built of marble. There is not a sound. The room is empty. The hours pass on, and still Francine does not return. Her absence excites great wonder in the house, for she is always in very early. "Could anything have happened to her?" one person asked another, but not a voice breathed a word reflecting on the girl's purity. Had any one known where she had gone, some one would have started in search of her. The porter looked once more down the street; the clock had struck twelve. No one came.

In the gray, chilly dawn, a hand slowly pushed open the door of Cinette's room. It is the mad woman. She instinctively knows that Francine never goes to sleep at night without kissing her. She has not felt those dewy lips touch her forehead this night. Restless and uneasy this sick woman, who for years has hardly left her bed, has crawled to Cinette's room. She is familiar with it, for she has many times implored Francine to take her there; and when the girl succeeded in doing so, the old woman laughed to see the curtains so white and the flowers so gay.

She reaches the bed, and feels with her poor withered hands for the girl's head. Cinette is not there, and the poor creature realizes it and weeps in agony. She would have reminded one of an Hindoo idol had she been seen. An hour elapsed, but the poor deformed woman still lies there.

Suddenly she raises her head. She hears rapid steps on the stairs. When Cinette went out she had locked the door of her room. The porter to be sure had another key. When some one knocked at the porter's lodge he was not yet up, and answered gruffly that the Marquise had not come in and the old woman could not move. There were several rapid knocks on the door.

"Open! open!" a voice called.

The voice had a strange, familiar tone. She listens. And Fanfar, for it is he, repeats his demand.

"In the name of Francine, I beg you to open the door. It is for her sake."

By what miracle did this paralyzed frame struggle to her feet? She takes a step—then another.

"Make haste!" said Fanfar.

The woman obeys. She turns the key in the lock, with many efforts, but it is done. Fanfar enters, and in the pale morning light is confronted by this horrible apparition. He contemplates her with horror and pity.

"Madame," he said, "is not Francine here?"

She did not reply. She is looking at him earnestly.

"She has been carried off, by a man named Talizac."

The sick woman tried to repeat this name.

"Tell me," continued Fanfar, "the life of this girl, who cares for you, who loves you, may depend on what you tell me. Have you ever seen any man by the name of Talizac here? And a woman of great size known as La Roulante, has she never been here to propose an infamous bargain?"

But he is interrupted. The paralytic falls upon her knees, and stretching out her arms, cries:

"Jacques! Jacques!"

"Who is this terrible creature," asks Jacques, "who calls me by the name of my boyhood?"

Suddenly a strange idea flashes into his mind. He looks eagerly into the eyes of the poor woman. He recognizes her; he leans over her.

"You called me Jacques, did you not? Yes, that was my name, when I was a boy in a village among the mountains. My father's name was Simon, Simon FougÈre, and I had a little sister Cinette."

The woman quivered from head to foot. She threw her arms around his neck.

"Jacques! my child! My name is FranÇoise, and I am the widow of Simon FougÈre."

"Mother! dear mother!"

This shock has been so great that the vail that obscured the poor woman's brain was rent in twain. She sees, she knows, she understands. It is he—it is the boy she held on her knees, in those days so long ago. He took her tenderly in his arms, and both weep.

"Ah! dear mother," he said, "you braved death for the sake of your children. How did you escape?"

But the momentary glimmer of reason had in a measure vanished, and when he spoke of Cinette she did not seem to be aware of who the girl was.

"You must listen to me, mother," said Fanfar, rapidly. "Jacques was not alone in that inn. There was another child; she was small, she had light curls."

His voice was so sympathetic and persuasive that FranÇoise saw it all, saw the little rosy face once more.

What was to be done? Time was passing, and now Fanfar knew that she who was in the power of a scoundrel, was his little sister Francine. He sees a miniature hanging on the wall, he takes it down.

"Yes, it is she—it is Cinette!" he cries.

The sick woman snatches it from his hand. She looks at it.

"Yes, it is my child."

"And you never knew it before?"

"No, she called me mamma, but I never called her daughter."

"And, mother, your daughter is in danger."

"Ah! I knew it, she did not kiss me to-night. Where is she?"

"In the power of a scoundrel, of the Vicomte de Talizac."

"Talizac!" The sick woman was troubled by the name, but she could not grasp the memories it had aroused.

The door opened hastily, and Gudel appeared.

"Gudel! Have you found Robeccal or La Roulante?"

"They have vanished. They have been living in la Rue des Venaigrurs, but last night they announced that they were about to move."

"And this is all you have discovered?"

"All."

"Then Gudel, I must tell you that this unfortunate creature I have in my arms is my mother, and Francine is my sister."

Gudel looked utterly aghast. Before he could speak, Bobichel appeared.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said to Fanfar, "but knowing that the sick lady was alone, I went for some one."

Caillette stepped forward.

The girl said in a low voice to Fanfar:

"Will you allow me to take care of your mother?"

She then turned to FranÇoise, and kissed her as Cinette would have done.

"Good, kind souls!" murmured Fanfar, "with the assistance of such people we ought to succeed."

He kissed his mother again, then turning to Gudel and Bobichel, he cried:

"Come with me! And may Eternal Justice be with us also!"