How was it that Madame de Mussidan, who was a daily visitor, had not appeared at the house since that eventful night?  He was so much surprised at this that he ventured to dispatch a short note, acquainting her of the sudden illness of his wife.

In an hour he received a reply, merely containing these words:—­

“Can you account for M. de Mussidan’s sudden determination to spend the winter in Italy?  We leave this evening.  Farewell.—­D.”

And so she, too, had abandoned him, taking with her all the hopes he had in the world.  Still, however, his infatuation held its sway over him, and he forced himself to believe that she felt this separation as keenly as he did.

Some five days afterwards, when the Duchess de Champdoce had been pronounced out of immediate danger, one of the doctors took him mysteriously aside.  He said that he wanted to inform the Duke of a startling, but he hoped a welcome piece of intelligence—­that the Duchess de Champdoce was in the way to present the Duke with an heir to his title and estates.

It was the knowledge of this that had decided her not to leave her husband’s roof, and had steeled her heart against George’s entreaties.  She had hesitated, and had almost yielded to the feelings of her heart, when this thought troubled her.

Unfortunately for herself, she had not disclosed her condition to her husband, and, at the news, all Norbert’s former suspicions revived, and his wrath rose once more to an extraordinary height.  His lips grew pale, and his eyes blazed with fury.

“Thank you, doctor!” exclaimed he.  “Of course, the news is very welcome.  Good-by.  I must go to the Duchess at once.”

Instead of going to his wife, Norbert went and locked himself up in his own private apartment.  He had need to be alone, in order to look this fresh complication more fully in the face, and the more he reflected, the more convinced was he that he had been the dupe of a guilty woman.  He had begun by doubting, and he ended by being convinced that the child was not his.  Was he to accept this degraded position, and rear up as his own the child of George de Croisenois?  The child would grow up under his own roof-tree, bear his name, and finally inherit his title and gigantic fortune.  “Never,” muttered he.  “No, never; for sooner than that, I will crush the life out of it with my own hands!”

The more he thought how he should have to deceive the world by feigning love and lavishing caresses upon this interloping child, the more he felt that it would be impossible to perform his task.  He had, however, much to do at present.  The sudden and mysterious disappearance of George de Croisenois had created much stir and excitement in Paris, and the letter which had been posed by the agent dispatched by Jean, instead of explaining matters, had only deepened the mystery and caused fresh grounds of surprise to arise in the minds of the friends of the Marquis and the police authorities.  But the disappearance of the Marquis was only a nine days’ wonder after all.  Some other strange event excited the attention of the fickle public, and George de Croisenois’ name was no longer in every one’s mouth.