covers upon the tables, whilst a work
basket, filled with a riot of many coloured silks, stood invitingly
open. And through the apartment, Sir, a scent of violets lingered and
caressed my nostrils, reminding me of a beauteous creature in distress
whom it had been my good fortune to succour.

I had waited less than five minutes when I heard a swift, elastic step
approaching through the next room, and a second or so later, before I
had time to take up an appropriate posture, the door was thrown open
and the exquisite vision of my waking dreams--the beautiful Angele--
stood smiling before me.

"Mademoiselle," I stammered somewhat clumsily, for of a truth I was
hardly able to recover my breath, and surprise had well nigh robbed me
of speech, "how comes it that you are here?"

She only smiled in reply, the most adorable smile I had ever seen on
any human face, so full of joy, of mischief--aye, of triumph, was it.
I asked after Madame. Again she smiled, and said Madame was in her
room, resting from the fatigues of her journey. I had scarce recovered
from my initial surprise when another--more complete still--confronted
me. This was the appearance of Monsieur Aristide Fournier, whom I had
fondly imagined already expiating his crimes in a frontier prison, but
who now entered, also smiling, also extremely pleasant, who greeted me
as if we were lifelong friends, and who then--I scarce could believe
my eyes--placed his arm affectionately round his sister's waist, while
she turned her sweet face up to his and gave him a fond--nay, a loving
look. A loving look to him who was a brute and a bully and a miscreant
amenable to the gallows! True his appearance was completely changed:
his eyes were bright and kindly, his mouth continued to smile, his
manner was urbane in the extreme when he finally introduced himself to
me as: "Aristide Fournier, my dear Monsieur Ratichon, at your
service."

He knew my name, he knew who I was! whilst I . . . I had to pass my hand
once or twice over my forehead and to close and reopen my eyes several
times, for, of a truth, it all seemed like a dream. I tried to stammer
out a question or two, but I could only gasp, and the lovely Angele
appeared highly amused at my distress.

"Let us dine," she said gaily, "after which you may ask as many
questions as you like."

In very truth I was in no mood for dinner. Puzzlement and anxiety
appeared to grip me by the throat and to choke me. It was all very
well