Thus mutually pained and distrustful, they returned to Paris, which they reached about nine o’clock.  In spite of her depression, Natalie, who had not seen her new apartments, felt some curiosity about them, whilst De Chaulieu anticipated a triumph in exhibiting the elegant home he had prepared for her.  With some alacrity, therefore, they stepped out of the carriage, the gates of the Hotel were thrown open, the concierge rang the bell which announced to the servants that their master and mistress had arrived, and whilst these domestics appeared above, holding lights over the balustrades, Natalie, followed by her husband, ascended the stairs.  But when they reached the landing-place of the first flight, they saw the figure of a man standing in a corner as if to make way for them; the flash from above fell upon his face, and again Antoine de Chaulieu recognized the features of Jacques Rollet!

From the circumstance of his wife’s preceding him, the figure was not observed by De Chaulieu till he was lifting his foot to place it on the top stair:  the sudden shock caused him to miss the step, and, without uttering a sound, he fell back, and never stopped till he reached the stones at the bottom.  The screams of Natalie brought the concierge from below and the maids from above, and an attempt was made to raise the unfortunate man from the ground; but with cries of anguish he besought them to desist.

“Let me,” he said, “die here!  What a fearful vengeance is thine!  O, Natalie, Natalie!” he exclaimed to his wife, who was kneeling beside him, “to win fame, and fortune, and yourself, I committed a dreadful crime!  With lying words I argued away the life of a fellow-creature, whom, whilst I uttered them, I half believed to be innocent; and now, when I have attained all I desired, and reached the summit of my hopes, the Almighty has sent him back upon the earth to blast me with the sight.  Three times this day—­three times this day!  Again! again!”—­and as he spoke, his wild and dilated eyes fixed themselves on one of the individuals that surrounded him.

“He is delirious,” said they.

“No,” said the stranger!  “What he says is true enough,—­at least in part;” and bending over the expiring man, he added, “May Heaven forgive you, Antoine de Chaulieu!  I was not executed; one who well knew my innocence saved my life.  I may name him, for he is beyond the reach of the law now,—­it was Claperon, the jailor, who loved Claudine, and had himself killed Alphonse de Bellefonds from jealousy.  An unfortunate wretch had been several years in the jail for a murder committed during the frenzy of a fit of insanity.  Long confinement had reduced him to idiocy.  To save my life Claperon substituted the senseless being for me, on the scaffold; he was executed in my stead.  He has quitted the country, and I have been a vagabond on the face of the earth ever since that time.  At length I obtained, through the assistance of my