s
as you yourself can be? Have you not received abundant proofs of my
devotion?"

"Then I can rely upon you."

"Absolutely." And seeing a lingering doubt in his client's eyes, M.
Fortunat added, "You have my word of honor!"

The clock struck three. The marquis took his hat and started toward
the door. But M. Fortunat, in whose heart the word scoundrel was still
rankling, stopped him. "Are you going to that lady's house now? What
is she called? I've forgotten her name. Ah, yes, I remember now. Madame
d'Argeles, isn't she called? It's at her place, I believe, that the
reputation of Mademoiselle Marguerite's favored lover is to be ruined."

The marquis turned angrily. "What do you take me for, Master
Twenty-per-cent?" he rudely asked. "That is one of those things no
well-bred gentleman will do himself. But in Paris people can be found to
do any kind of dirty work, if you are willing to pay them for it."

"Then how will you know the result?"

"Why, twenty minutes after the affair is over, M. de Coralth will be
at my house. He is there even now, perhaps." And as this subject was
anything but pleasant, he hastened away, exclaiming, "Get to bed, my
dear extortioner. Au revoir. And, above all, remember your promise."

"My respects, Monsieur le Marquis."

But when the door closed, M. Fortunat's expression immediately changed.
"Ah! you insult me!" he muttered sullenly. "You rob me, and you call
me a scoundrel into the bargain. You shall pay dearly for it, my fine
fellow, no matter what may happen!"

IV.

It is in vain that the law has endeavored to shield private life from
prying eyes. The scribes who pander to Parisian curiosity surmount all
obstacles and brave every danger. Thanks to the "High Life" reporters,
every newspaper reader is aware that twice a week--Mondays and
Thursdays--Madame Lia d'Argeles holds a reception at her charming
mansion in the Rue de Berry. Her guests find plenty of amusement there.
They seldom dance; but card-playing begins at midnight, and a dainty
supper is served before the departure of the guests.

It was on leaving one of these little entertainments that that
unfortunate young man, Jules Chazel, a cashier in a large banking-house,
committed suicide by blowing out his brains. The brilliant frequenters
of Madame d'Argeles's entertainments considered this act proof of
exceeding bad taste and deplorable weakness on his part. "The fellow was
a coward," they declared. "Why, he had