Louis at once proceeded to his father's business place, anxious to get over the inevitable explanation which had become necessary between them. But to his great astonishment and alarm, he found the door and shutters still closed, and was informed by the neighbors that the old man had not made his appearance that day. This break in his regular habits seemed so unusual and inexplicable, that the young man felt a vague uneasiness invading him as he hurried toward home, and all sorts of wild conjectures flashed through his mind. He soon reached the Rue de Grenelle, however, and was running up the first flight of stairs when the concierge called him from his door.

"Monsieur Louis," he said, "your father went out a couple of hours ago and left a letter for you. I was to take it to your office if you did not return before two o'clock."

The young man grasped the letter and tore it open. It ran thus:

"My dear child:

"I have just received a few lines from my friend Ramon, informing me that he and his daughter will arrive in Paris to-day.

"As he has never traveled in a railway train and anticipates much pleasure in that mode of conveyance, he will stop at Versailles, where he begs us to meet him. We shall visit the palace, and return together by the last train.

"I shall wait for you at the Hotel du Reservoir; but if you are late, you can join us at the palace. Remember, that this interview with Mademoiselle Ramon will compromise you in no way. My only desire is that you should take advantage of this opportunity to study that young person's character and see the injustice of your groundless prejudices. You will moreover understand that, whatever may be your projects, it would be most ungracious on your part to fail at a rendezvous given by one of my oldest and dearest friends.

"Your father, who loves you deeply, and whose sole desire is your happiness.

"A. RICHARD."

Notwithstanding his habitual deference to the wishes of his father, Louis thought it unnecessary to go to Versailles and face Mademoiselle Ramon a second time; so he hastened to his employer's office instead, and resumed his usual work, undeterred by the astounding revelation of his father's wealth. Owing to the numerous distractions caused by the various events of the day, however, it was late when he finished his day's task and put away his papers.

He had just closed his desk and was taking his hat from its accustomed peg, when one of his comrades burst into the room and cried excitedly: "My God! what a terrible thing!"

"What is it," asked the clerks in chorus.

"I have just met a friend on his way back from the Versailles station—"

"Versailles station!" echoed Louis, with a sudden start. "Well, what has happened?"

"A frightful accident!"

"Great Heavens!" cried Louis, turning deathly pale. "But go on."

"The return train to Paris ran off the track, throwing the cars in a heap; and it is reported that all the passengers have either been crushed or burnt to death, and—"

But Louis stopped to hear no more. Rushing out, bareheaded as he was, he dashed down the street to the first corner, where he leaped into a cab, crying: "Twenty francs if you take me to the Versailles station at breakneck speed—and from there somewhere else—I don't know where; but in mercy, go!"

"Which side of the river, monsieur," asked the coachman, as he lashed his horse.

"What do you mean?"

"There are two stations. One on the right, the other on the left bank."

"I want to go where that terrible accident occurred."

"This is the first I hear of it, monsieur."

Louis was forced to return to the office for information; but he found the place already deserted, and returned to the cab in despair.

"I have just learned it was on the left bank," the coachman informed him from his seat.

"To the left bank then!" he ordered, sinking back on the cushions with a moan.

There he learned that the sad news was unfortunately but too true, and was directed how to reach the scene of the accident.

It was nightfall when he finally reached Bas-Meudon; and, guided by the flames of the burning debris, he soon found himself on the sinister spot, where he spent the night in a fruitless search for the charred remains of his father among the mass of crushed and burnt flesh piled on the roadside or pinioned in the wreck. Worn out in body and spirits, he returned to Paris at dawn, hoping his father might have been one of the small number that had escaped with slight injuries.

"Has my father returned?" were his first words to the concierge.

"No, monsieur Louis," replied the man.

"There is no doubt possible then—he perished in the accident," he moaned, sinking into a chair and bursting into sobs.

In a few moments he had recovered his self-possession however; and, without stopping to hear the concierge's words of condolence, he slowly ascended to the fifth landing and entered the dreary room. At sight of this gloomy home, so long shared with his beloved father, the young man's grief again became uncontrollable; and, throwing himself on the bed, he buried his face in his hands and gave free scope to his overwhelming sorrow.

He had sobbed thus for half an hour, absorbed wholly in his bitter despair, when he was startled by a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of some one into the room.

"What is it?" asked Louis, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"I am sorry to disturb you at such a time, Monsieur Louis," said the concierge timidly, "but the coachman—"

"What coachman?" questioned the young man in surprise, having entirely forgotten the cab in his grief.

"Why, the coachman you retained all night. It seems you promised him twenty extra francs if he would lash his horse to the utmost speed. This, with his night's run, comes to forty-nine francs, and he claims his money."

"Well, give him the money and tell him to go!" rejoined Louis impatiently.

"But, forty-nine francs is an enormous sum, Monsieur Louis; and I can't pay it."

"My God! what shall I do!" cried the young man, recalled to the material interests of life by this request. "I have no money!"

"Then why in the deuce do you hire cabs by the hour and in the night, too, besides promising twenty extra francs for speed? You must have taken leave of your senses!" cried the astounded man. "What will you do now? See if you can't find a little money in your father's chest."

These last words recalled what he had forgotten in his paroxysm of grief. His father was rich, and there must surely be some money about the place. Not wishing to prosecute his search in the presence of a stranger, however, he said carelessly: "Tell the man to wait, as may need the cab again this morning. If I am not down in half an hour, come up and I shall give you the money."

"But this will increase the bill, and if you cannot pay—" the man began to remonstrate.

"I know what I am doing," interrupted Louis, coldly; "you may go."

Once alone, he shrank from the task imposed upon him; this investigation, at such a moment, seemed almost a sacrilege. But necessity forced him to resign himself to it, and he stifled his scruples as best he might.

The furniture of the room Was composed of a writing table, a dresser, and an old black-walnut chest divided into two compartments, such as we find in the houses of well-to-do peasants. After a fruitless search of the table and dresser, Louis turned to the old chest. A few pieces of worn clothes lay scattered about, but nothing else; and in the long drawer that separated the compartments, he found a bundle of unimportant papers only. Thinking this drawer might contain a secret hiding place, however, he drew it out completely, and was rewarded for his trouble by finding a small brass button beneath it. As he pressed this button, he was astonished to see the bottom of the first compartment drop slowly down, revealing a space of about six inches in depth, with diverging shelves lined in garnet velvet. Symmetrically arranged between these shelves were innumerable piles of gold pieces, representing all countries and epochs. Each piece had evidently been frequently and vigorously rubbed and cleaned, for the whole glittered with almost dazzling brilliancy.

Notwithstanding his overwhelming grief, Louis was completely dazzled for a moment at sight of this treasure, the value of which he knew must be considerable; and it was not until the first impression had passed over, that he remarked a piece of folded paper almost beneath his fingers. Recognizing his father's hand-writing, he picked it up eagerly and read these words:

"This collection of gold coins was begun September 7, 1803; its actual value is 287,634 francs. (See paragraph IV. in my last will and testament, confided to M. Marainville, notary, Rue Sainte-Anne, No. 28, who also has all papers, deeds and titles. See also sealed envelope, behind Spanish coin, fifth shelf.)"

Removing several piles of the large, heavy coins, Louis at last found an envelope, sealed in black and bearing these words in big letters:

"TO MY WELL-BELOVED SON."

Before he could open it, however, there was a knock on the door; and, remembering that he had told the concierge to return in half an hour, he grasped one of the Spanish coins under his hand and quickly pressed the button that closed the treasure box.

"What a fine gold piece!" exclaimed the amazed concierge, when the young man handed him the coin. "It looks like new, and I never saw one like it! How much is it worth?"

"More than the sum I owe," replied Louis, impatiently; "take it to a money broker and pay the coachman."

"Did your father leave you many of these pretty coins, Monsieur Louis?" queried the man in a mysterious whisper. "Who would have believed that the poor old man—"

"Go!" cried Louis, irritated at the cynicism of this question. "Pay the coachman, and don't let me see you again."

The man withdrew without another word; and, having bolted the door to save himself from further intrusion, the miser's son returned to the chest. For a moment he stood contemplating the dazzling treasure before him, and though he reproached himself for thinking of his own happiness in that terrible hour, he could not help feeling a thrill of delight at the thought that one-fourth that sum would insure comfort and independence to his Mariette for a whole lifetime.

Then he tried to forget the cruel stratagem employed by his father toward the poor girl, and even succeeded in convincing himself that he would have obtained his consent to their union; and that, though he might not have admitted his wealth, he would at least have amply provided for them.

The discovery of these riches did not inspire him with that covetous, revengeful joy usually experienced by the heirs of a miser, when they remember the cruel privations to which they were subjected through the avarice of the owner; it was, on the contrary, with a feeling of touching pious respect, and with a hand trembling with emotion, that he unfolded the sheet containing the last wishes of his beloved father.