“Get along,” said Carabine, into whose hand Madame Nourrisson had slipped a note while embracing her, “you do not know your Brazilians.  They are wrong-headed creatures that insist on being impaled through the heart.  The more jealous they are, the more jealous they want to be.  Monsieur talks of dealing death all round, but he will kill nobody because he is in love.—­However, I have brought him here to give him the proofs of his discomfiture, which I have got from that little Steinbock.”

Montes was drunk; he listened as if the women were talking about somebody else.

Carabine went to take off her velvet wrap, and read a facsimile of a note, as follows:—­

“DEAR PUSS.—­He dines with Popinot this evening, and will come to fetch me from the Opera at eleven.  I shall go out at about half-past five and count on finding you at our paradise.  Order dinner to be sent in from the Maison d’or.  Dress, so as to be able to take me to the Opera.  We shall have four hours to ourselves.  Return this note to me; not that your Valerie doubts you—­I would give you my life, my fortune, and my honor, but I am afraid of the tricks of chance.”

“Here, Baron, this is the note sent to Count Steinbock this morning; read the address.  The original document is burnt.”

Montes turned the note over and over, recognized the writing, and was struck by a rational idea, which is sufficient evidence of the disorder of his brain.

“And, pray,” said he, looking at Carabine, “what object have you in torturing my heart, for you must have paid very dear for the privilege of having the note in your possession long enough to get it lithographed?”

“Foolish man!” said Carabine, at a nod from Madame Nourrisson, “don’t you see that poor child Cydalise—­a girl of sixteen, who has been pining for you these three months, till she has lost her appetite for food or drink, and who is heart-broken because you have never even glanced at her?”

Cydalise put her handkerchief to her eyes with an appearance of emotion—­“She is furious,” Carabine went on, “though she looks as if butter would not melt in her mouth, furious to see the man she adores duped by a villainous hussy; she would kill Valerie—­”

“Oh, as for that,” said the Brazilian, “that is my business!”

“What, killing?” said old Nourrisson.  “No, my son, we don’t do that here nowadays.”

“Oh!” said Montes, “I am not a native of this country.  I live in a parish where I can laugh at your laws; and if you give me proof—­”

“Well, that note.  Is that nothing?”

“No,” said the Brazilian.  “I do not believe in the writing.  I must see for myself.”

“See!” cried Carabine, taking the hint at once from a gesture of her supposed aunt.  “You shall see, my dear Tiger, all you wish to see—­on one condition.”

“And that is?”

“Look at Cydalise.”

At a wink from Madame Nourrisson, Cydalise cast a tender look at the Baron.