which, should a man chance to fall, it would be death and fast burial at one and the same moment.  And Cazeau set a rather exorbitant value on his own life, as most men do whose lives are of no sort of consequence to the world.  So he was careful to walk where there was the least danger of slipping,—­and as he lit an excellent cigar, and puffed the faint blue rings of smoke out into the clear moonlit atmosphere, he was in a very agreeable frame of mind.  He was crafty and clever in his way,—­one of those to whom the Yankee term “cute” would apply in its fullest sense,—­and he had the happy knack of forgetting his own mistakes and follies, and excusing his own sins with as much ease as though he were one of the “blood-royal” of nations.  Vices he had in plenty in common with most men,—­except that his particular form of licentiousness was distinguished by a callousness and cruelty in which there was no touch of redeeming quality.  As a child he had loved to tear the wings off flies and other insects, and one of his keenest delights in boyhood had been to watch the writhings of frogs into whose soft bodies he would stick long pins,—­the frogs would live under this treatment four and five hours—­sometimes longer, and while observing their agonies he enjoyed “that contented mind which is a perpetual feast.”  Now that he was a man, he delighted in torturing human beings after the same methods applied mentally, whenever he could find a vulnerable part through which to thrust a sharp spear of pain.

“The eminent Cardinal Bonpre!” he mused now; “What is he to me!  If I could force the Archbishop of Rouen into high favour at the Vatican instead of this foolish old Saint Felix, it would be a better thing for my future.  After all, it was at Rouen that the miracle was performed—­the city should have some credit!  And Bonpre has condoned a heretic . . . he is growing old and feeble—­possibly he is losing his wits.  And then there is that boy . . .”

He started violently as a fantastic shadow suddenly crossed his path, in the moonlight, and a peal of violent laughter assailed his ears.

“Enfin!  Toi, mon Claude!—­enfin!—­Grace a Dieu!  Enfin!”

And the crazed creature, known as Marguerite, “La Folle”, stood before him, her long black hair streaming over her bare chest and gaunt arms, her eyes dilated, and glowing with the mingled light of madness and despair.

Cazeau turned a livid white in the moon-rays;—­his blood grew icy cold.  What!  After two years of dodging about the streets of Rouen to avoid meeting this wretched woman whom he had tricked and betrayed, had she found him at last!