“My God, inspire me,” he murmured.  “How shall I save the honor of the name?”

He saw but one chance of salvation—­death.  They now believed him one of the miserable wretches that haunt the suburbs of Paris; if he were dead they would not trouble themselves about his identity.

“It is the only way!” he thought.

He was endeavoring to find some means of accomplishing his plan of self-destruction, when he heard a bustle and confusion outside.  In a few moments the door was opened and a man was thrust into the same cell—­a man who staggered a few steps, fell heavily to the floor, and began to snore loudly.  It was only a drunken man.

But a gleam of hope illumined Martial’s heart, for in the drunken man he recognized Otto—­disguised, almost unrecognizable.

It was a bold ruse and no time must be lost in profiting by it.  Martial stretched himself upon a bench, as if to sleep, in such a way that his head was scarcely a yard from that of Otto.

“The duchess is out of danger,” murmured the faithful servant.

“For to-day, perhaps.  But to-morrow, through me, all will be known.”

“Have you told them who you are?”

“No; all the policemen but one took me for a vagabond.”

“You must continue to personate this character.”

“What good will it do?  Lacheneur will betray me.”

But Martial, though he little knew it, had no need to fear Lacheneur for the present, at least.  A few hours before, on his way from the Rainbow to the Poivriere, Jean had been precipitated to the bottom of a stone quarry, and had fractured his skull.  The laborers, on returning to their work early in the morning, found him lying there senseless; and at that very moment they were carrying him to the hospital.

Although Otto was ignorant of this circumstance, he did not seem discouraged.

“There will be some way of getting rid of Lacheneur,” said he, “if you will only sustain your present character.  An escape is an easy matter when a man has millions at his command.”

“They will ask me who I am, whence I came, how I have lived.”

“You speak English and German; tell them that you have just returned from foreign lands; that you were a foundling and that you have always lived a roving life.”

“How can I prove this?”

Otto drew a little nearer his master, and said, impressively: 

“We must agree upon our plans, for our success depends upon a perfect understanding between us.  I have a sweetheart in Paris—­and no one knows our relations.  She is as sharp as steel.  Her name is Milner, and she keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg, on the Saint-Quentin.  You can say that you arrived here from Leipsic on Sunday; that you went to this hotel; that you left your trunk there, and that this trunk is marked with the name of May, foreign artist.”

“Capital!” said Martial, approvingly.