As M. Verduret spoke, Prosper felt all his resolutions of revolt slowly melting away, and their place taken by confidence and hope.

“If what you say were true!” he mournfully said.

“Foolish young man!  Why do you persist in obstinately shutting your eyes to the proof I place before you?  Can you not see that Mlle. Madeleine knows who the thief is?  Yes, you need not look so shocked; she knows the thief, but no human power can tear it from her.  She sacrifices you, but then she almost has the right, since she first sacrificed herself.”

Prosper was almost convinced; and it nearly broke his heart to leave this little parlor where he had seen Madeleine.

“Alas!” he said, pressing M. Verduret’s hand, “you must think me a ridiculous fool! but you don’t know how I suffer.”

The man with the red whiskers sadly shook his head, and his voice sounded very unsteady as he replied, in a low tone: 

“What you suffer, I have suffered.  Like you, I loved, not a pure, noble girl, yet a girl fair to look upon.  For three years I was at her feet, a slave to her every whim; when, one day she suddenly deserted me who adored her, to throw herself in the arms of a man who despised her.  Then, like you, I wished to die.  Neither threats nor entreaties could induce her to return to me.  Passion never reasons, and she loved my rival.”

“And did you know this rival?”

“I knew him.”

“And you did not seek revenge?”

“No,” replied M. Verduret with a singular expression, “no:  fate took charge of my vengeance.”

For a minute Prosper was silent; then he said: 

“I have finally decided, monsieur.  My honor is a sacred trust for which I must account to my family.  I am ready to follow you to the end of the world; dispose of me as you judge proper.”

That same day Prosper, faithful to his promise, sold his furniture, and wrote a letter to his friends announcing his intended departure to San Francisco.

In the evening he and M. Verduret installed themselves in the “Archangel.”

Mme. Alexandre gave Prosper her prettiest room, but it was very ugly compared with the coquettish little parlor on the Rue Chaptal.  His state of mind did not permit him, however, to notice the difference between his former and present quarters.  He lay on an old sofa, meditating upon the events of the day, and feeling a bitter satisfaction in his isolated condition.

About eleven o’clock he thought he would raise the window, and let the cool air fan his burning brow; as he did so a piece of paper was blown from among the folds of the window-curtain, and lay at his feet on the floor.

Prosper mechanically picked it up, and looked at it.

It was covered with writing, the handwriting of Nina Gypsy; he could not be mistaken about that.

It was the fragment of a torn letter; and, if the half sentences did not convey any clear meaning, they were sufficient to lead the mind into all sorts of conjectures.