oor of his master's room and
announced,--

"M. Mascarin."

CHAPTER V.

A FORGOTTEN CRIME.

Baptiste Mascarin had been in so many strange situations, from which he
had extricated himself with safety and credit, that he had the fullest
self-confidence, but as he ascended the wide staircase of the Hotel de
Mussidan, he felt his heart beat quicker in anticipation of the struggle
that was before him. It was twilight out of doors, but all within was
a blaze of light. The library into which he was ushered was a vast
apartment, furnished in severe taste. At the sound of the unaristocratic
name of Mascarin, which seemed as much out of place as a drunkard's oath
in the chamber of sleeping innocence, M. de Mussidan raised his head
in sudden surprise. The Count was seated at the other end of the room,
reading by the light of four candles placed in a magnificently wrought
candelabra. He threw down his paper, and raising his glasses, gazed with
astonishment at Mascarin, who, with his hat in his hand and his heart
in his mouth, slowly crossed the room, muttering a few unintelligible
apologies. He could make nothing, however, of his visitor, and said,
"Whom do you wish to see, sir?"

"The Count de Mussidan," stuttered Mascarin; "and I hope that you will
forgive this intrusion."

The Count cut his excuse short with a haughty wave of his hand. "Wait,"
said he imperiously. He then with evident pain rose from his seat, and
crossing the room, rang the bell violently, and then reseated himself.
Mascarin, who still remained in the centre of the room, inwardly
wondered if after all he was to be turned out of the house. In another
second the door opened, and the figure of the faithful Florestan
appeared.

"Florestan," said the Count, angrily, "this is the first time that you
have permitted any one to enter this room without my permission; if this
occurs again, you leave my service."

"I assure your lordship," began the man.

"Enough! I have spoken; you know what to expect."

During this brief colloquy, Mascarin studied the Count with the deepest
attention.

The Count Octave de Mussidan in no way resembled the man sketched by
Florestan. Since the time of Montaigne, a servant's portrait of his
employer should always be distrusted. The Count looked fully sixty,
though he was but fifty years of age; he was undersized, and he looked
shrunk and shrivelled; he was nearly bald, and his long whiskers were
perfectly white. The cares o