of those which were engraven upon
M. Fortunat's memory; and yet he did not notice it at the moment. His
attention was so absorbed by what he had just heard that he could not
fix his mind upon the object of his mission; and he only abandoned his
conjectures on hearing a rustling of skirts against the panels of the
door leading into the hall.

The next moment Madame Lia d'Argeles entered the room. She was arrayed
in a very elegant dressing-gown of gray cashmere, with blue satin
trimmings, her hair was beautifully arranged, and she had neglected none
of the usual artifices of the toilette-table; still any one would have
considered her to be over forty years of age. Her sad face wore an
expression of melancholy resignation; and there were signs of recent
tears in her swollen eyes, surrounded by bluish circles. She glanced at
her visitor, and, in anything but an encouraging tone exclaimed: "You
desired to speak with me, I believe?"

M. Fortunat bowed, almost disconcerted. He had expected to meet one of
those stupid, ignorant young women, who make themselves conspicuous at
the afternoon promenade in the Bois de Boulogne; and he found himself in
the presence of an evidently cultivated and imperious woman, who,
even in her degradation, retained all her pride of race, and awed him,
despite all his coolness and assurance. "I do, indeed, madame, wish to
confer with you respecting some important interests," he answered.

She sank on to a chair; and, without asking her visitor to take a seat:
"Explain yourself," she said, briefly.

M. Fortunat's knowledge of the importance of the game in which he had
already risked so much had already restored his presence of mind. He
had only needed a glance to form a true estimate of Madame d'Argeles's
character; and he realized that it would require a sudden, powerful, and
well-directed blow to shatter her composure. "I have the unpleasant duty
of informing you of a great misfortune, madame," he began. "A person who
is very dear to you, and who is nearly related to you, was a victim of a
frightful accident yesterday evening and died this morning."

This gloomy preamble did not seem to produce the slightest effect on
Madame d'Argeles. "Whom are you speaking of?" she coldly asked.

M. Fortunat assumed his most solemn manner as he replied: "Of your
brother, madame--of the Count de Chalusse."

She sprang up, and a convulsive shudder shook her from head to foot.
"Raymond is dead!" she faltered