“Unfortunately, my fortune is not on a par with my nobility.  When my mother died, in 1856, my father, who worshiped her, could no longer bear, in the intensity of his grief, to remain at the Chateau de Tregars where he had spent his whole life.  He came to Paris, which he could well afford, since we were rich then, but unfortunately, made acquaintances who soon inoculated him with the fever of the age.  They proved to him that he was mad to keep lands which barely yielded him forty thousand francs a year, and which he could easily sell for two millions; which amount, invested merely at five per cent, would yield him an income of one hundred thousand francs.  He therefore sold every thing, except our patrimonial homestead on the road from Quimper to Audierne, and rushed into speculations.  He was rather lucky at first.  But he was too honest and too loyal to be lucky long.  An operation in which he became interested early in 1869 turned out badly.  His associates became rich; but he, I know not how, was ruined, and came near being compromised.  He died of grief a month later.”

The old soldier was nodding his assent.

“Very well, my boy,” he said.  “But you are too modest; and there’s a circumstance which you neglect.  You had a right, when your father became involved in these troubles, to claim and retain your mother’s fortune; that is, some thirty thousand francs a year.  Not only you did not do so; but you gave up every thing to his creditors.  You sold the domain of Tregars, except the old castle and its park, and paid over the proceeds to them; so that, if your father did die ruined, at least he did not owe a cent.  And yet you knew, as well as myself, that your father had been deceived and swindled by a lot of scoundrels who drive their carriages now, and who, perhaps, if the courts were applied to, might still be made to disgorge their ill-gotten plunder.”

Her head bent upon her tapestry, Mlle. Gilberte seemed to be working with incomparable zeal.  The truth is, she knew not how to conceal the blushes on her cheeks, and the trembling of her hands.  She had something like a cloud before her eyes; and she drove her needle at random.  She scarcely preserved enough presence of mind to reply to Mme. Favoral, who, not noticing any thing, spoke to her from time to time.

Indeed, the meaning of this scene was too clear to escape her.

“They have had an understanding,” she thought, “and it is for me alone that they are speaking.”

Meantime, Marius de Tregars was going on: 

“I should lie, my old friend, were I to say that I was indifferent to our ruin.  Philosopher though one may be, it is not without some pangs that one passes from a sumptuous hotel to a gloomy garret.  But what grieved me most of all was that I saw myself compelled to give up the labors which had been the joy of my life, and upon which I had founded the most magnificent hopes.  A positive vocation, stimulated