His brother had bequeathed to him, as a precious trust, his son Raoul; he regarded himself, he said, as his guardian, and would be held responsible in another world for his welfare.

He entreated Mme. Fauvel to use her influence, when he found himself powerless in trying to check the heedless youth in his headlong career.  She ought, for the sake of her child, to see more of him, study his disposition, and daily admonish him in his duty to himself and to her.

“Alas,” the poor woman replied, “that would be my heart’s desire.  But how can I do it?  Have I the right to ruin myself?  I have other children, for whom I must be careful of my reputation.”

This answer appeared to astonish Clameran.  A fortnight before, Mme. Fauvel would not have alluded to her other sons.

“I will think the matter over,” said Louis, “And perhaps when I see you next I shall be able to submit to you a plan which will reconcile everything.”

The reflections of a man of so much experience could not be fruitless.  He had a relieved, satisfied look, when he called to see Mme. Fauvel on the following week.

“I think I have solved the problem,” he said.

“What problem?”

“The means of saving Raoul.”

He explained himself by saying, that as Mme. Fauvel could not, without arousing her husband’s suspicions, continue her daily visits to Raoul, she must receive him at her own house.

This proposition shocked Mme. Fauvel; for though she had been imprudent, even culpable, she was the soul of honor, and naturally shrank from the idea of introducing Raoul into the midst of her family, and seeing him welcomed by her husband, and perhaps become the friend of his sons.  Her instinctive sense of justice made her declare that she would never consent to such an infamous step.

“Yes,” said the marquis, thoughtfully, “there is some risk; but then, it is the only chance of saving your child.”

She resisted with so much firmness and indignation that Louis was astonished, and for a time nonplussed; though he by no means let the subject drop, but seized every opportunity of impressing upon her tortured mind that Raoul’s salvation depended entirely upon her.

“No,” she would always reply, “no!  Never will I be so base and perfidious to my husband!”

Unfortunate woman! little did she know of the pitfalls which stand ever ready to swallow up wanderers from the path of virtue.

Before a week had passed, she listened to this project, which at first had filled her with horror, with a willing ear, and even began to devise means for its speedy execution.

Yes, after a cruel struggle, she finally yielded to the pressure of Clameran’s politely uttered threats and Raoul’s wheedling entreaties.

“But how,” she asked, “upon what pretext can I receive Raoul?”

“It would be the easiest thing in the world,” replied Clameran, “to admit him as an ordinary acquaintance, and, indeed, to place him on the same footing which I myself occupy—­that of an intimate friend and habitue of your drawing-rooms.  But Raoul must have more than this; he needs your constant care.”