Marius de Tregars was assuming fantastic proportions in the mind of Maxence.

“How did you manage,” he stammered, “thus to find out the truth?”

“With time and money, every thing is possible.”

“But you must have had grave reasons to take so much trouble about Lucienne.”

“Very grave ones, indeed.”

“You know that she was basely forsaken when quite a child?”

“Perfectly.”

“And that she was brought up through charity?”

“By some poor gardeners at Louveciennes:  yes, I know all that.”

Maxence was trembling with joy.  It seemed to him that his most dazzling hopes were about to be realized.  Seizing the hands of Marius de Tregars,

“Ah, you know Lucienne’s family!” he exclaimed.  But M. de Tregars shook his head.

“I have suspicions,” he answered; “but, up to this time, I have suspicions only, I assure you.”

“But that family does exist; since they have already, at three different times, attempted to get rid of the poor girl.”

“I think as you do; but we must have proofs:  and we shall find some.  You may rest assured of that.”

Here he was interrupted by the noise of the opening door.

The old servant came in, and advancing to the centre of the room with a mysterious look,

“Madame la Baronne de Thaller,” he said in a low voice.

Marius de Tregars started violently.

“Where?” he asked.

“She is down stairs in her carriage,” replied the servant.  “Her footman is here, asking whether monsieur is at home, and whether she can come up.”

“Can she possibly have heard any thing?” murmured M. de Tregars with a deep frown.  And, after a moment of reflection,

“So much the more reason to see her,” he added quickly.  “Let her come.  Request her to do me the honor of coming up stairs.”

This last incident completely upset all Maxence’s ideas.  He no longer knew what to imagine.

“Quick,” said M. de Tregars to him:  “quick, disappear; and, whatever you may hear, not a word!”

And he pushed him into his bedroom, which was divided from the study by a mere tapestry curtain.  It was time; for already in the next room could be heard a great rustling of silk and starched petticoats.  Mme. de Thaller appeared.

She was still the same coarsely beautiful woman, who, sixteen years before, had sat at Mme. Favoral’s table.  Time had passed without scarcely touching her with the tip of his wing.  Her flesh had retained its dazzling whiteness; her hair, of a bluish black, its marvelous opulence; her lips, their carmine hue; her eyes, their lustre.  Her figure only had become heavier, her features less delicate; and her neck and throat had lost their undulations, and the purity of their outlines.

But neither the years, nor the millions, nor the intimacy of the most fashionable women, had been able to give her those qualities which cannot be acquired,—­grace, distinction, and taste.