lost hardly a thousand louis!"

He had lost only that, it is true--a mere trifle as times go. Only the
money was not his; he had taken it from the safe which was confided
to his keeping, expecting, probably, to double the amount in a single
night. In the morning, when he found himself alone, without a penny, and
the deficit staring him in the face, the voice of conscience cried, "You
are a thief!" and he lost his reason.

The event created a great sensation at the time, and the Petit Journal
published a curious story concerning this unfortunate young man's
mother. The poor woman--she was a widow--sold all she possessed, even
the bed on which she slept, and when she had succeeded in gathering
together twenty thousand francs--the ransom of her son's honor--she
carried them to the banker by whom her boy had been employed. He took
them, without even asking the mother if she had enough left to purchase
her dinner that evening; and the fine gentleman, who had won and
pocketed Jules Chazel's stolen gold, thought the banker's conduct
perfectly natural and just. It is true that Madame d'Argeles was in
despair during forty-eight hours or so; for the police had begun a sort
of investigation, and she feared this might frighten her visitors and
empty her drawing-rooms. Not at all, however; on the contrary, she had
good cause to congratulate herself upon the notoriety she gained through
this suicide. For five days she was the talk of Paris, and Alfred
d'Aunay even published her portrait in the Illustrated Chronicle.

Still, no one was able to say exactly who Madame Lia d'Argeles was. Who
was she, and whence did she come? How had she lived until she sprang up,
full grown, in the sunshine of the fashionable world? Did the splendid
mansion in the Rue de Berry really belong to her? Was she as rich as she
was supposed to be? Where had she acquired such manners, the manners of
a thorough woman of the world, with her many accomplishments, as well as
her remarkable skill as a musician? Everything connected with her was
a subject of conjecture, even to the name inscribed upon her visiting
cards--"Lia d'Argeles."

But no matter. Her house was always filled to over-flowing; and at the
very moment when the Marquis de Valorsay and M. Fortunat were speaking
of her, a dozen coroneted carriages stood before her door, and her
rooms were thronged with guests. It was a little past midnight, and the
bi-weekly card party had just been made up, when a