“Vincent!”

The former cashier of the Mutual Credit appeared at once, coming out of the bedroom.

He was so changed, that his wife and children would have hesitated in recognizing him.  He had cut off his beard, pulled out almost the whole of his thick eye-brows, and covered his rough and straight hair under a brown curly wig.  He wore patent-leather boots, wide pantaloons, and one of those short jackets of rough material, and with broad sleeves which French elegance has borrowed from English stable-boys.  He tried to appear calm, careless, and playful; but the contraction of his lips betrayed a horrible anguish, and his look had the strange mobility of the wild beasts’ eye, when, almost at bay, they stop for a moment, listening to the barking of the hounds.

“I was beginning to fear that you would disappoint me,” he said to Mme. Zelie.

“It took me some time to buy your breakfast.”

“And is that all that kept you?”

“The porter detained me too, to hand me a letter, in which I found one for you.  Here it is.”

“A letter!” exclaimed Vincent Favoral.

And, snatching it from her, he tore off the envelope.  But he had scarcely looked over it, when he crushed it in his hand, exclaiming,

“It is monstrous!  It is a mean, infamous treason!” He was interrupted by a violent ringing of the door-bell.

“Who can it be?” stammered Mme. Cadelle.

“I know who it is,” replied the former cashier.  “Open, open quick.”

She obeyed; and almost at once a woman walked into the parlor, wearing a cheap, black woolen dress.  With a sudden gesture, she threw off her veil; and M. de Tregars recognized the Baroness de Thaller.

“Leave us!” she said to Mme. Zelie, in a tone which one would hardly dare to assume towards a bar-maid.

The other felt indignant.

“What, what!” she began.  “I am in my own house here.”

“Leave us!” repeated M. Favoral with a threatening gesture.  “Go, go!”

She went out but only to take refuge by the side of M. de Tregars.

“You hear how they treat me,” she said in a hoarse voice.

He made no answer.  All his attention was centred upon the parlor.  The Baroness de Thaller and the former cashier were standing opposite each other, like two adversaries about to fight a duel.

“I have just read your letter,” began Vincent Favoral.

Coldly the baroness said, “Ah!”

“It is a joke, I suppose.”

“Not at all.”

“You refuse to go with me?”

“Positively.”

“And yet it was all agreed upon.  I have acted wholly under your urgent, pressing advice.  How many times have you repeated to me that to live with your husband had become an intolerable torment to you!  How many times have you sworn to me that you wished to be mine alone, begging me to procure a large sum of money, and to fly with you!”