Master Chevassat was reputed to be well off; but the story went that he lent out money, and did not hesitate to charge a hundred per cent a month.  He acted, besides, it was said, as agent for two of his tenants,—­the broker, and the dealer in second-hand goods, and undertook the executions, when poor debtors were unable to pay.  Mrs. Chevassat, however, had even graver charges to bear.  People said she would do anything for money, and had aided and encouraged many a poor girl in the house in her evil career.

It was also asserted that the estimable couple had formerly lived in the fashionable Faubourg St. Honore, but had been compelled to leave there on account of several ugly occurrences.  They were, finally, reported to have a son called Justin, a handsome fellow, thirty-five years old, who lived in the best society, and whom they nearly worshipped; while he was ashamed of them, and despised them, although he came often at night to ask them for money.  No one, it must, however, be confessed, had ever seen this son; and no one knew him.

The two Chevassats shrugged their shoulders, and said it would be absurd if they should trouble themselves about public opinion, as long as their consciences were clear, and they owed nobody anything.

Towards the end of last December, however, on a Saturday afternoon, towards five o’clock, husband and wife were just sitting down to dinner, when the dealer in old clothes, Papa Ravinet, rushed like a tempest into their room.

He was a man of middle size, clean shaven, with small, bright, yellowish eyes, which shone with restless eagerness from under thick, bushy brows.  Although he had lived for years in Paris, he was dressed like a man from the country, wearing a flowered silk vest, and a long frock-coat with an immense collar.

“Quick, Chevassat!” he cried, with a voice full of trouble.  “Take your lamp, and follow me; an accident has happened upstairs.”

He was so seriously disturbed, although generally very calm and cool, that the two Chevassats were thoroughly frightened.

“An accident!” exclaimed the woman; “that was all that was wanting.  But pray, what has happened, dear M. Ravinet?”

“How do I know?  This very moment, as I was just coming out of my room, I thought I heard the death-rattle of a dying person.  It was in the fifth story.  Of course I ran up a few steps, I listened.  All was silent.  I went down again, thinking I had been mistaken; and at once I heard again a sighing, a sobbing—­I can’t tell you exactly what; but it sounded exactly like the last sigh of a person in agony, and at the point of death.”

“And then?”

“Then I ran down to tell you, and ask you to come up.  I am not sure, you understand; but I think I could swear it was the voice of Miss Henrietta,—­that pretty young girl who lives up there.  Well, are you coming?”

But they did not stir.

“Miss Henrietta is not in her room,” said Mrs. Chevassat coldly.  “She went out just now, and told me she would not be back till nine o’clock.  My dear M. Ravinet, you must have been mistaken; you had a ringing in your ears, or”—­