THE important events of this story and its hero have occupied us to such an extent that we have not found time to present Monsieur Lecamus as he should be. The little that we know of him does not effect our sympathy. The place that he occupies in the house of Longuet, which is eminently immoral; the cynicism with which he deceives an innocent soul; the little danger that he seems to run in accomplishing the larceny- these are good reasons why we have deferred showing our contempt for him. It may be said that we have judged hastily, and have not allowed him to plead extenuating circumstances. The principal one, and the one which it would be well for us to dwell upon, is that he really liked ThÉophraste above everybody else. He loved him with his faults, his weaknesses, his ingenuousness, the confidence he had in him, and above all, the admiration ThÉophraste had for him. There was no sacrifice he would not make for ThÉophraste, and I daresay that if ThÉophraste had any pecuniary troubles, which after all are the only troubles which really count here below, Adolphe Lecamus would open his purse, and give to him freely. Adolphe loved ThÉophraste even above Marceline; and although I do not pretend to deal here with psychology, I find myself confronted with a case which is much less common than one would be inclined to believe. For Adolphe loved Marceline because he had made her his mistress.

If he had learned, by some supernatural warning, that ThÉophraste would some day learn his real position in the household, he would only have respected Marceline. “But,” he thought to himself, “ThÉophraste will never know anything about it, and as unknown evils do not exist, I will be the lover of the wife of my best friend.”

These lines are necessary, that the reader may understand properly the knavish tricks of the lover. But we must understand distinctly Adolphe’s devotion to ThÉophraste.

After the departure of the Commissioner, they all set themselves to consider what was to be done with the articles which ThÉophraste had brought home with him. At first they all sat silently looking at the objects, no one wishing to break the silence, until ThÉophraste said, “I have nothing more in my pockets. I really believe I have got my black plume.”

Marceline and Adolphe were startled by this, but still did not say anything, and waited for ThÉophraste to give some explanation. Then he declared it was in the crowd at the Place de la Concorde. He went in and out among the crowd, and it was a very simple matter for him.

“What must we do?” asked Adolphe in a grave voice?”

“What do you wish me to do?” replied ThÉophraste, who by this time had begun to confess. “You do not think that I am going to keep them! It is not my habit to keep things that do not belong to me. I am an honest man and have never wronged anybody. You must take them all to M. Milfroid, your friend, the Commissioner of Police. He can easily restore them to the owners.”

“What can I say to him?”

“Whatever you wish,” burst out ThÉophraste, who was becoming impatient. “Did the honest coachman who found a purse and fifty thousand francs in his carriage think about what he should say when he took them to the commissariat? He simply said, ‘I have found them in the carriage.’ That was sufficient. They even rewarded him for it. You must say, ‘My friend Longuet charged me to bring this to you. He found them in his pockets, and he does not wish a reward.’”

Marceline touched Adolphe with her foot under the table. This was her customary way of secretly drawing Adolphe’s attention. She wanted to signify to him that she thought ThÉophraste was demented, and her look quite showed it. Adolphe understood. He knitted his brows and scratched the tip of his nose. He felt that now was the time to act. He looked from ThÉophraste to the pocket-books, and coughing, said, “ThÉophraste, this is not natural. We have to explain ourselves. We must understand. You must not close your eyes to this misfortune. You must open them wide, and bring your will to fight it.”

“Of what misfortune are you speaking?” asked ThÉophraste, becoming frightened.

“Well, is it not a misfortune to have things in your pocket that do not belong to you?”

“I do not understand. You seem to be accusing me of being dishonest. I am an honest man, and whatever I have done dishonestly, I have done against my will.”

Having said these words, he fell back in his chair in a dead faint, and a deep silence fell over them all.

When ThÉophraste came out of his stupor, his eyes were full of tears. He motioned to his wife and his friend to come nearer to him. When they were beside him, he said, showing pitiable emotion, “I feel that Adolphe is right. A great misfortune menaces me, I know not what! I know not what! My God! I know not what! I know not what!”

Adolphe and Marceline attempted to console him, but he wept more. Then Marceline began to weep.

In his emotion, ThÉophraste grasped them both by the hand, and cried, “Swear never to abandon me, no matter what happens, for, oh! some day I shall need your help.” They swore to him in good faith.

Adolphe then asked to see the document. As he spread the document before him, he said, “ThÉophraste, tell me, do you ever have dreams?”

“It is very probable, but I only dream a very little.”

“Never?” insisted Adolphe.

“Scarcely ever. However, I remember to have dreamed four or five times in my life, perhaps because I woke each time in the middle of my dream, and it was always the same dream. But what possible interest can there be in this, to the subject which is occupying us now, Adolphe?”

Adolphe continued: “Dreams have never been explained by science. Science attributes them all to the effects of the imagination, but it does not give us the reason for these clear, distinct visions which appear to us sometimes. Thus it explains a thing which is not known by another which is no better understood. It says that dreams are the recollection of things which took place in a former life. But even admitting this solution-which is a doubtful one-we still have to find out what is the magic mirror that serves so well to keep the imprint of things. Moreover, how can one explain visions of real things, events that one has never seen in a former state, and of which one has never even thought? Who can affirm that these are not visions of retrospective past events in a former life?”

“That is right, my dear Adolphe,” said ThÉophraste, “and I ought to confess the things that I have dreamed. I have dreamed them three times as I said before, things that were perhaps true in the past, or will be in the future. I have never seen them in a waking state in my present life.”

“You understand me,” said Adolphe. “Relate to me the things that you have dreamed of and have never seen.”

“Oh, that will not take long. But so much the better, for it is not very cheerful: I dreamed that I was married to a woman named Marie Antoinette, and then——”

“And then?” interrupted Adolphe, who had never taken his eyes off the document.

“And then I cut her up in pieces.”

“Oh, horrors!” cried Marceline.

“It is horrible,” continued ThÉophraste, shaking his head. “Then I put the pieces in a basket and threw them into the Seine by the little bridge of the Hotel Dieu. I awoke then, and you may be sure I was not sorry.”

Adolphe struck the table a hard blow with his fist. “It is frightful,” he cried in a harsh voice, looking at ThÉophraste.

“Is it not?” said Marceline, shuddering.

Adolphe read the first lines of the document.

“Oh, how dreadful it is!” he continued, groaning. “Alas, alas! I understand all, now.”

“What do you understand?” asked ThÉophraste in a frightened voice, following Adolphe’s finger as he traced the first two lines of the document.

“This,” said Adolphe. “‘Moi et! I buried my, treasures.’ And you do not know what that ‘et’ means? Well, I won’t tell you until I am quite sure. I will know to-morrow. ThÉophraste, tomorrow at two o’clock be at the Rue Guinegaud and the Rue Mazarin. I am going to take these articles to M. Milfroid’s house. He will restore them to their owners, and we will prove to him that there are pickpockets even when the Commissioner is present. Adieu, my friend, adieu. Above all take courage. Take courage.” Adolphe shook ThÉophraste’s hand with the warmth of a comrade, and departed.

ThÉophraste did not sleep that night. While Marceline reposed peacefully by his side, he lay with eyes wide open in the darkness. His respiration was irregular, and he sighed often. Anxiety lay heavy upon him.