“Madame, I knew it before,” said the Comte, rising; “still, I thank you.”

“Oh, M’sieur, I have put it all away—­I swear it!”

“I believe you,” interrupted the Comte, “and now no more of it!  I also am going to be frank with you.”  He went with a smile to a corner where stood the little box, done up in rope, which held the trousseau of the Comtesse de Bonzag.  “Open that, and give me the lottery-tickets I gave you.”

“Hanh?  You—­M’sieur says?”

“The lottery-tickets—­”

“Oh, M’sieur, but they’re not there—­”

“Then where are they?”

“Oh, M’sieur, wait; I’ll tell you,” said Francine, simply.  “When Andoche went off—­”

[Illustration:  “You gave him—­the tickets!  The lottery-tickets!”]

“What!” cried the Comte, like a cannon.

“He was so broken up, M’sieur, I was so afraid for him, so just to console him, M’sieur—­to give him something—­I gave him the tickets.”

“You gave him—­the tickets!  The lottery-tickets!”

“Just to console him—­yes, M’sieur.”

The lank form of the Comte de Bonzag wavered, and then, as though the body had suddenly deserted the clothes, collapsed in a heap on the floor.

THE END