ly. He was loved by all. He kept an inn, and taught the children
of the peasants, to whom he sold wine. Yes, and this man bore one of the
noblest names in France. One day cowards killed him, and at the same
time other scoundrels and cowards, in obedience to fratricidal commands,
attacked the house where he had so long struggled against poverty; other
villains again attacked his wife and tried to kill his children. This,
Monsieur de Talizac, is the sign that hung on the front of the inn kept
by Simon, Marquis de Fongereues, and I defy you, his brother and his
murderer, to repeat to me what you have already said in the face of this
witness. Pray and entreat, if you will, if you dare--I, the lacquey of
your father, reply: Cain! you are stained with the blood of your
brother--begone!"

The Marquis uttered a yell of rage.

"Your memory is short, Monsieur de Talizac, and I will remind you that
in 1817, one night the good man whom you killed with your infamy lay
dying. You had the cruel courage to enter his room, and knelt at the
side of his bed----"

"Be silent!" cried the Marquis.

"My master cursed you, cursed you as a murderer! It was a horrible
scene--I saw and heard it all. You implored this dying man to have mercy
on you and tell you where this money was placed. But my master did not
yield, nor will I!"

Deadly pale, and with compressed lips, the Marquis murmured:

"Then you refuse?"

"I refuse--the son of Simon de Fongereues is living!"

"And if he be dead--am I not the sole heir?"

"I do not know."

"You have no right to keep back a will. Once more I ask--will you
speak?"

"I will not!"

"Very well. The will is here; we will take it!"

The Marquis whistled, and Cyprien appeared.

"We must help ourselves," said the Marquis.

"All right!" answered the lacquey.

Strangely enough, this man who looked so infirm now bounded back and
placed himself behind a table. He drew from his pockets two pistols,
which he pointed toward his adversaries.

"Monsieur de Talizac," he said, "you tried to kill me once before, in
the Black Forest--take care!"

Fongereues had no arms. Cyprien had been wiser. He, too, drew a pistol,
but before he could touch the trigger, Pierre had opened the door behind
him.

"For a valet," he said, "a dog is all that is required."

A dog of the Vosges, as large as a wolf, with bloodshot eyes and
bristling hair, flew at Cyprien's throat, who fell on the floor.

"Help! Help!" cried t