ERNESTINE.

“Quel malheur!  Quel malheur!” exclaimed the old man.  “My poor M. Paul!  Forgive me!  I’m a stupid fool,” and he grasped his companion’s hand in quick sympathy.

“It’s all right, you didn’t understand,” said the other gently.

“And you—­you think it’s his doing?”

“Of course.  He must have given the order in that cipher dispatch to Dubois.  Dubois is a secret agent of the government.  He communicated with the Prime Minister, but the Prime Minister was away inaugurating a statue; he didn’t return until after midnight.  That is why the man wasn’t set at liberty sooner.  No wonder he kept looking at the clock.”

“And Dubois telegraphed to have this hellish thing done?”

“Yes, yes, they had warned me, they had killed my dog, and—­and now they have struck at my mother.”  He bent down his head on his hands.  “She’s all I’ve got, Tignol, she’s seventy years old and—­infirm and—­no, no, I quit, I’m through.”

In his distress and perplexity the old man could think of nothing to say; he simply tugged at his fierce mustache and swore hair-raising oaths under his breath.

“And the insurance?” he asked presently.  “What does that mean?”

“I sent the renewal money to this lawyer Abel,” answered Coquenil in a dull tone.  “They have used him against me to—­to take my savings.  I had put about all that I had into this home for my mother.  You see they want to break my heart and—­they’ve just about done it.”

He was silent a moment, then glanced quickly at his watch.  “Come, we have no time to lose.  My train leaves in an hour.  I have important things to explain—­messages for Pougeot and the girl—­I’ll tell you in the carriage.”

Five minutes later they were speeding swiftly in an automobile toward the Eastern railway station.

* * * * *

There followed three days of pitiful anxiety for Coquenil.  His mother’s health was feeble at the best, and the shock of this catastrophe, the sudden awakening in the night to find flames roaring about her, the difficult rescue, and the destruction of her peaceful home, all this was very serious for the old lady; indeed, there were twenty-four hours during which the village doctor could offer small comfort to the distracted son.

Madam Coquenil, however, never wavered in her sweet faith that all was well.  She was comfortable now in the home of a hospitable neighbor and declared she would soon be on her feet again.  It was this faith that saved her, vowed Ernestine, her devoted companion; but the doctor laughed and said it was the presence of M. Paul.

At any rate, within the week all danger was past and Coquenil observed uneasily that, along with her strength and gay humor, his mother was rapidly recovering her faculty of asking embarrassing questions and of understanding things that had not been told her.  In the matter of keen intuitions it was like mother like son.