n," said Joseph in a piteous tone; "the
scamps spoke English, so I could not understand them. But I am sure they
were disputing about money."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I learned at the Exposition that the word 'argent' means money
in every language in Europe; and this word they constantly used in their
conversation."

M. Verduret sat with knit brows, talking in an undertone to himself; and
Prosper, who was watching him, wondered if he was trying to understand
and construct the dispute by mere force of reflection.

"When they had done fighting," continued Joseph, "the rascals began to
talk in French again; but they only spoke of a fancy ball which is to
be given by some banker. When Raoul was leaving, my master said, 'Since
this thing is inevitable, and it must take place to-day, you had better
remain at home, at Vesinet, this evening.' Raoul replied, 'Of course.'"

Night was approaching, and the smoking-room was gradually filling
with men who called for absinthe or bitters, and youths who perched
themselves up on high stools, and smoked their pipes.

"It is time to go," said M. Verduret; "your master will want you,
Joseph; besides, here is someone come for me. I will see you to-morrow."

The new-comer was no other than Cavaillon, more troubled and frightened
than ever. He looked uneasily around the room, as if he expected the
whole police force to appear, and carry him off to prison.

He did not sit down at M. Verduret's table, but stealthily gave his hand
to Prosper, and, after assuring himself that no one was observing them,
handed M. Verduret a package, saying:

"She found this in a cupboard."

It was a handsomely bound prayer-book. M. Verduret rapidly turned over
the leaves, and soon found the pages from which the words pasted on
Prosper's letter had been cut.

"I had moral proofs," he said, handing the book to Prosper, "but here is
material proof sufficient in itself to save you."

When Prosper looked at the book he turned pale as a ghost. He recognized
this prayer-book instantly. He had given it to Madeleine in exchange for
the medal.

He opened it, and on the fly-leaf Madeleine had written, "Souvenir of
Notre Dame de Fourvieres, 17 January, 1866."

"This book belongs to Madeleine," he cried.

M. Verduret did not reply, but walked toward a young man dressed like a
brewer, who had just entered the room.

He glanced at the note which this person handed to him, and hastened
back to the ta