“I can,” thought he, “alter my appearance so much that I shall not be recognized.  I need not return here to sleep.  I can ask a bed from Vignol, who will help me in every possible way.”

This Vignol was the friend to whom, at Andre’s request, M. Gandelu had given the superintendence of the works at his new house in the Champs Elysees.

“I shall,” continued he, “by this means escape entirely from De Croisenois and his emissaries, and can watch their game without their having any suspicion of my doing so.  For the time being, of course, I must give up seeing those who have been helping me,—­De Breulh, Gandelu, Madame de Bois Arden, and M. de Mussidan; that, however, cannot be avoided.  I can use the post, and by it will inform them all of the step that I have taken.”

It was dark before he had finished his letters, and, of course, it was too late to try anything that day; consequently he went out, posted his letters, and dined at the nearest restaurant.

On his return home, he proceeded to arrange his disguise.  He had it ready, among his clothes:  a blue blouse, a pair of check trousers, well-worn shoes, and a shabby cap, were all that he required, and he then applied himself to the task of altering his face.  He first shaved off his beard.  Then he twisted down two locks of hair, which he managed to make rest on his forehead.  Then he commenced applying some coloring to his face with a paint-brush; but this he found to be an extremely difficult business, and it was not for a long while that he was satisfied with the results that he had produced.  He then knotted an old handkerchief round his neck, and clapped his cap on one side, with the peak slanting over one eye.  Then he took a last glance in the glass, and felt that he had rendered himself absolutely unrecognizable.  He was about to impart a few finishing touches, when a knock came at his door.  He was not expecting any one at such an hour, nine o’clock; for the waiters from the restaurant had already removed the remains of the feast.

“Who is there?” cried he.

“It is I,” replied a weak voice; “I, Gaston de Gandelu.”

Andre decided that he had no cause to distrust the lad, and so he opened his door.

“Has M. Andre gone out?” asked the poor boy faintly.  “I though I heard his voice.”

Gaston had not penetrated his disguise, and this was Andre’s first triumph; but he saw now that he must alter his voice, as well as his face.

“Don’t you know me?” asked he.

It was evident that young Gaston had received some terrible shock; for it could not have been the quarrel in the morning that had reduced him to this abject state of prostration.

“What has gone wrong with you?” asked Andre kindly.

“I have come to bid you farewell; I am going to shoot myself in half an hour.”

“Have you gone mad?”

“Not in the least,” answered Gaston, passing his hand across his forehead in a distracted manner; “but those infernal bills have turned up.  I was just leaving the dining-room, after having treated the governor to my company, when the butler whispered in my ear that there was a man outside who wanted to see me.  I went out and found a dirty-looking old scamp, with his coat collar turned up round the nape of his neck.”