“How so?”

“Because for twelve months past; I have given food and shelter to a girl of the name of Clarisse.  Do you by any chance know her?”

At the mention of this name, the lawyer started, as a man starts who, walking peacefully along, suddenly sees a deadly serpent coiled across his path.

“Clarisse,” stammered he, “how did you know of her? who told you?”

But the sarcastic sneer upon the lips of his two confederates wounded his pride so deeply, that in an instant he recovered his self-possession.

“I am getting foolish,” said he, “to ask these men how they learned my secret.  Do they not always work by infamous and underhand means?”

“You see I know all,” remarked Mascarin, “for I foresaw the day would come when you would wish to sever our connection, and even give us up to justice, if you could do so with safety to yourself.  I therefore took my precautions.  One thing, however, I was not prepared for, and that was, that a man of your intelligence should have played so paltry a game, and even twelve months back thought of betraying us.  It is almost incredible.  Do you ever read the Gazette des Tribunaux?  I saw in its pages yesterday a story nearly similar to your own.  Shall I tell it to you?  A lawyer who concealed his vices beneath a mantle of joviality and candor, brought up from the country a pretty, innocent girl to act as servant in his house.  This lawyer occupied his leisure time in leading the poor child astray, and the moment at last came when the consequences of her weakness were too apparent.  The lawyer was half beside himself at the approaching scandal.  What would the neighbors say?  Well, to cut the story short, the infant was suppressed,—­you understand, suppressed, and the mother turned into the street.”

“Baptiste, have mercy!”

“It was a most imprudent act, for such things always leak out somehow.  You have a gardener at your house at Champigny, and suppose the idea seized upon this worthy man to dig up the ground round the wall at the end of the garden.”

“That is enough,” said Catenac, piteously.  “I give in.”

Mascarin adjusted his spectacles, as he always did in important moments.

“You give in, do you?  Not a bit.  Even now you are endeavoring to find a means of parrying my home thrusts.”

“But I declare to you——­”

“Do not be alarmed; dig as deeply as he might, your gardener would discover nothing.”

The lawyer uttered a stifled exclamation of rage as he perceived the pit into which he had fallen.

“He would find nothing,” resumed Mascarin, “and yet the story is all true.  Last January, on a bitterly cold night, you dug a hole, and in it deposited the body of a new-born infant wrapped in a shawl.  And what shawl?  Why the very one that you purchased at the Bon Marche, when you were making yourself agreeable to Clarisse.  The shopman who sold it to you has identified it, and is ready to give evidence when called upon.  You may look for that shawl, Catenac, but you will not find it.”