My intention was to retire early to bed after spending an agreeable evening with the family, who would no doubt overwhelm me with their gratitude, and at daybreak I would drive back to Gex after I had heard all the latest news from Leroux.

I confess that it was with a pardonable feeling of agitation that I tugged at the wrought-iron bell-pull on the perron of the magnificent mansion in the Avenue du Jura.  To begin with I felt somewhat rueful at having to appear before ladies at this hour in my travelling clothes, and then, you will admit, Sir, that it was a somewhat awkward predicament for a man of highly sensitive temperament to meet on terms of equality a refined if stout lady whose son he had just helped to send to the gallows.  Fortunately there was no likelihood of Mme. Fournier being as yet aware of this unpleasant fact:  even if she did know at this hour that her son’s illicit adventure had come to grief, she could not possibly in her mind connect me with his ill-fortune.  So I allowed the sumptuous valet to take my hat and coat and I followed him with as calm a demeanour as I could assume up the richly carpeted stairs.  Obviously the relatives of Mme. Fournier were more than well to do.  Everything in the house showed evidences of luxury, not to say wealth.  I was ushered into an elegant salon wherein every corner showed traces of dainty feminine hands.  There were embroidered silk cushions upon the sofa, lace covers upon the tables, whilst a work basket, filled with a riot of many coloured silks, stood invitingly open.  And through the apartment, Sir, a scent of violets lingered and caressed my nostrils, reminding me of a beauteous creature in distress whom it had been my good fortune to succour.

I had waited less than five minutes when I heard a swift, elastic step approaching through the next room, and a second or so later, before I had time to take up an appropriate posture, the door was thrown open and the exquisite vision of my waking dreams—­the beautiful Angele—­ stood smiling before me.

“Mademoiselle,” I stammered somewhat clumsily, for of a truth I was hardly able to recover my breath, and surprise had well nigh robbed me of speech, “how comes it that you are here?”

She only smiled in reply, the most adorable smile I had ever seen on any human face, so full of joy, of mischief—­aye, of triumph, was it.  I asked after Madame.  Again she smiled, and said Madame was in her room, resting from the fatigues of her journey.  I had scarce recovered from my initial surprise when another—­more complete still—­confronted me.  This was the appearance of Monsieur Aristide Fournier, whom I had fondly imagined already expiating his crimes in a frontier prison, but who now entered, also smiling, also extremely pleasant, who greeted me as if we were lifelong friends, and who then—­I scarce could believe my eyes—­placed his arm affectionately round his sister’s waist, while she turned her sweet face up to his and gave him a fond—­nay, a loving look.  A loving look to him who was a brute and a bully and a miscreant amenable to the gallows!  True his appearance was completely changed:  his eyes were bright and kindly, his mouth continued to smile, his manner was urbane in the extreme when he finally introduced himself to me as:  “Aristide Fournier, my dear Monsieur Ratichon, at your service.”