While the messenger went for the cab, Nathalie hurried on her hat and cloak, and ran into her uncle’s room.

“I have found him out—­he loves another.  He’s at her house now, in a gray blouse.  But I will go and confront him, and then you will see me no more.”

The old man had no time to reply.  She was gone, with her messenger, in the cab.  They stopped at last.

“Here is the house.”

Nathalie got out, pale and trembling.

“Shall I go up-stairs with you, madame?” asked the boy.

“No, I will go alone.  The third story, isn’t it?”

“Yes, madame; the left-hand door, at the head of the stairs.”

It seemed that now, indeed, the end of all things was at hand.

Nathalie mounted the dark, narrow stairs, and arrived at the door, and, almost fainting, she cried:  “Open the door, or I shall die!”

The door was opened, and Nathalie fell into her husband’s arms.  He was alone in the room, clad in a gray blouse, and—­smoking a Turkish pipe.

“My wife!” exclaimed Armand, in surprise.

“Your wife—­who, suspecting your perfidy, has followed you, to discover the cause of your mysterious conduct!”

“How, Nathalie, my mysterious conduct?  Look, here it is!” (Showing his pipe.) “Before our marriage, you forbade me to smoke, and I promised to obey you.  For some months I kept my promise; but you know what it cost me; you remember how irritable and sad I became.  It was my pipe, my beloved pipe, that I regretted.  One day, in the country, I discovered a little cottage, where a peasant was smoking.  I asked him if he could lend me a blouse and cap; for I should like to smoke with him, but it was necessary to conceal it from you, as the smell of smoke, remaining in my clothes, would have betrayed me.  It was soon settled between us.  I returned thither every afternoon, to indulge in my favorite occupation; and, with the precaution of a cap to keep the smoke from remaining in my hair, I contrived to deceive you.  This is all the mystery.  Forgive me.”

Nathalie kissed him, crying:  “I might have known it could not be!  I am happy now, and you shall smoke as much as you please, at home.”

And Nathalie returned to her uncle, saying:  “Uncle, he loves me!  He was only smoking, but hereafter he is to smoke at home.”

“I can arrange it all,” said D’Ablaincourt; “he shall smoke while he plays backgammon.”

“In that way,” thought the old man, “I shall be sure of my game.”

JEAN MONETTE

BY EUGENE FRANCOIS VIDOCQ

At the time when I first became commissary of police, my arrondissement was in that part of Paris which includes the Rue St. Antoine—­a street which has a great number of courts, alleys, and culs-de-sac issuing from it in all directions.  The houses in these alleys and courts are, for the most part, inhabited by wretches wavering betwixt the last shade of poverty and actual starvation, ready to take part in any disturbance, or assist in any act of rapine or violence.