Andre started on hearing this name, and his cheek crimsoned.  The man whom he most hated in this world; the wretch who, by his possession of some compromising secret, was forcing Sabine into a detested marriage; the villain whom he, M. de Breulh, and Madame de Bois Arden had sworn to overreach, was within a few paces of him, and that now he should see him face to face.  Their eyes would meet, and he would hear the tones of the scoundrel’s voice.  His rage and agitation were so intense that it was with the utmost difficulty that he concealed it.  Luckily for him, Gaston was not paying the slightest attention to his companion; for having, at the clerk’s invitation, taken a chair, he assumed an imposing attitude, which struck the shabby young man behind the railing with the deepest admiration.

“I suppose,” said he, in a loud voice, “that you know my dear friend, the Marquis?”

Andre made some reply, which Gaston interpreted as a negative.

“Really,” said he, “you know no one, as I told you before.  Where have you lived?  But you must have heard of him?  Henri de Croisenois is one of my most intimate friends.  He owes me over fifty louis that I won of him one night at baccarat.”

Andre was now certain that he had estimated Verminet’s character correctly, and the relations of the Marquis de Croisenois with this very equivocal personage assumed a meaning of great significance to him.  He felt now that he had gained a clue, a beacon blazed out before him, and he saw his way more clearly into the difficult windings of this labyrinth of iniquity which he knew that he must penetrate before he gained the secret he longed for.

He felt like a child playing the game called “Magic Music,” when, as the seeker nears the hiding place of the article of which he is in search, the strains of the piano swell higher and higher.  He now found that the boy whose master he had become, knew, or said he knew, a good deal of this marquis.  Why should he not gain some information from him?

“Are you really intimate with the Marquis de Croisenois?” asked he.

“I should rather think I was,” returned Gandelu the younger.  “You will see that precious sharp.  I know all about him, and who the girl is that he is ruining himself for, but I mustn’t talk about that; mum’s the word, you know.”

At that moment the door opened, and the Marquis appeared, followed by Verminet.

Henri de Croisenois was attired in the most fashionable manner, and formed an utter contrast to the flashy dress of Gaston.  He was smoking a cigar, and mechanically tapping his boots with an elegant walking cane.  In a moment the features and figure of the Viscount were indelibly photographed upon Andre’s brain.  He particularly noticed his eyes, which had in them a half-concealed look of terror, and his face bore the haunted expression of a person who expects some terrible blow to fall upon him at any moment.