ortune with incredible rapidity. The
lords of Malaquis, absolutely ruined, had been obliged to sell
the ancient castle at a great sacrifice. It contained an admirable
collection of furniture, pictures, wood carvings, and faience. The Baron
lived there alone, attended by three old servants. No one ever enters
the place. No one had ever beheld the three Rubens that he possessed,
his two Watteau, his Jean Goujon pulpit, and the many other treasures
that he had acquired by a vast expenditure of money at public sales.

Baron Satan lived in constant fear, not for himself, but for the
treasures that he had accumulated with such an earnest devotion and with
so much perspicacity that the shrewdest merchant could not say that
the Baron had ever erred in his taste or judgment. He loved them--his
bibelots. He loved them intensely, like a miser; jealously, like a
lover. Every day, at sunset, the iron gates at either end of the bridge
and at the entrance to the court of honor are closed and barred. At
the least touch on these gates, electric bells will ring throughout the
castle.

One Thursday in September, a letter-carrier presented himself at the
gate at the head of the bridge, and, as usual, it was the Baron himself
who partially opened the heavy portal. He scrutinized the man as
minutely as if he were a stranger, although the honest face and
twinkling eyes of the postman had been familiar to the Baron for many
years. The man laughed, as he said:

"It is only I, Monsieur le Baron. It is not another man wearing my cap
and blouse."

"One can never tell," muttered the Baron.

The man handed him a number of newspapers, and then said:

"And now, Monsieur le Baron, here is something new."

"Something new?"

"Yes, a letter. A registered letter."

Living as a recluse, without friends or business relations, the baron
never received any letters, and the one now presented to him immediately
aroused within him a feeling of suspicion and distrust. It was like an
evil omen. Who was this mysterious correspondent that dared to disturb
the tranquility of his retreat?

"You must sign for it, Monsieur le Baron."

He signed; then took the letter, waited until the postman had
disappeared beyond the bend in the road, and, after walking nervously to
and fro for a few minutes, he leaned against the parapet of the bridge
and opened the envelope. It contained a sheet of paper, bearing this
heading: Prison de la Sante, Paris. He looked at the