“You should have let me know, then,” he exclaimed, “that she was your mistress.”

Something like a flame passed over M. de Tregars’ face.  His eyes flashed.  Rising in all the height of his wrath, which broke out terrible at last,

“Ah, you scoundrel!” he exclaimed.

M. Costeclar threw himself suddenly to one side.

“Sir!”

But at one bound M. de Tregars had caught him.

“On your knees!” he cried.

And, seizing him by the collar with an iron grip, he lifted him clear off the floor, and then threw him down violently upon both knees.

“Speak!” he commanded.  “Repeat,—­’Mademoiselle’”

M. Costeclar had expected worse from M. de Tregars’ look.  A horrible fear had instantly crushed within him all idea of resistance.

“Mademoiselle,” he stuttered in a choking voice.  “I am the vilest of wretches,” continued Marius.  M. Costeclar’s livid face was oscillating like an inert object.

“I am,” he repeated, “the vilest of wretches.”

“And I beg of you—­”

But Mlle. Gilberte was sick of the sight.

“Enough,” she interrupted, “enough!”

Feeling no longer upon his shoulders the heavy hand of M. de Tregars, the stock-broker rose with difficulty to his feet.  So livid was his face, that one might have thought that his whole blood had turned to gall.

Dusting with the end of his glove the knees of his trousers, and restoring as best he could the harmony of his toilet, which had been seriously disturbed,

“Is it showing any courage,” he grumbled, “to abuse one’s physical strength?”

M. de Tregars had already recovered his self-possession; and Mlle. Gilberte thought she could read upon his face regret for his violence.

“Would it be better to make use of what you know?” M. Costeclar joined his hands.

“You would not do that,” he said.  “What good would it do you to ruin me?”

“None,” answered M. de Tregars:  “you are right.  But yourself?”

And, looking straight into M. Costeclar’s eyes,—­“If you could be of service to me,” he inquired, “would you be willing?”

“Perhaps.  That I might recover possession of the papers you have.”

M. de Tregars was thinking.

“After what has just taken place,” he said at last, “an explanation is necessary between us.  I will be at your house in an hour.  Wait for me.”

M. Costeclar had become more pliable than his own lavender kid gloves:  in fact, alarmingly pliable.

“I am at your command, sir,” he replied to M. de Tregars.

And, bowing to the ground before Mlle. Gilberte, he left the parlor; and, a few moments after, the street-door was heard to close upon him.

“Ah, what a wretch!” exclaimed the, girl, dreadfully agitated.  “Marius, did you see what a look he gave us as he went out?”