hid away the only
treasure he loved: he prolonged his own evil destiny through this
unknown seed of his planted somewhere in the mud!"

Her regard flamed on Bibi-Ri.

"Unknown--my little dears. Unknown ever since!... Though it is said
Heaven itself had set its seal on that race for a warning and a symbol:
though the child himself was marked from birth: was marked about the
neck--so the legend goes--with a thin red line like the print of a noose
or the trace of strangling fingers!"

Bibi-Ri had propped himself by the table, one hand clutching the close
collar of his jacket.

"How--how could you guess...!"

"Ah-ah! Now will you try to throw us over? Not so easily--eh? Now don't
you think you still have need of us? Until the depositions are made, at
least?... Sac a papier! The very instant you showed me that old
miniature and the initial it bears--I knew you, my boy! I could have
read you your whole fortune then: only I saved the best of it for a
wedding present! And for sure, I never expected you to try a bolt. A
droll of an idea--that! To run away from your chief witness?... Why,
stupid one!" She broke off to drop him a little mocking curtsey.
"Monsieur the Duke!... It was my own sister had had the honor to be Your
Grace's nurse!"

He was trembling. "Tell me the name of that family!"

"But certainly, my lad.... After you are married!" "Don't torture me!
Tell me the name of that man!"

"But certainly, my love.... It is M. de Nou!"

Strange how like a sinister refrain that title--that word--ran and
recurred throughout the affair. But this time it had an impact as never
before. Credit me! This time it came home to Bibi-Ri: and my little
joker absolutely reeled under it.

"Eh?" cried Mother Carron. "Eh? How is your sacred ambition now? Is
there any manhood to you? And what are you going to do about it?"

What indeed! She had reduced him to a rag. For this she had played upon
a febrile nature, you understand: had battered it, dazzled it, wrung it
of emotions: confirming his wildest beliefs: destroying his dearest
illusions: tossing his hopes to the stars and smirching them in the mire
with the same sweep:--that he might have no other will at the end....
And therein appeared the triumph of her masterful certitude. For
presently raising his miserable and hunted eyes he looked at her: he
looked for me in the shadow: he did not look at Zelie again--but he
looked toward the door....

How easy it might have seemed,