cries, and she felt that she was being carried away by
vigorous arms.

"Well done!" said Robeccal, "and now for La Roulante!"

CHAPTER XXVI.

A MAN CHASE.

When the men on the stairs heard the whistle blown by Robeccal, they
rushed through the crowd brandishing their knives. They disappeared in
the street.

Aube hurried up-stairs. Francine had disappeared. Fernando had finally
succeeded in separating the combatants, and pushed Frederic out of the
door.

Arthur, foaming with rage, called out to Aube:

"Make haste, the girl has been carried off by the order of these people!
I know what I say!"

Aube hastened to his private rooms; he found the door that led to the
stairs unlocked and open.

"What scoundrels they are!" cried Aube.

"Yes," answered Montferrand, "but scoundrels who bear the best names in
France--one is the Vicomte de Talizac, son of the Marquis de
Fongereues."

A young man suddenly appeared on the stairs.

"Who speaks of Talizac and de Fongereues?" he asked.

"Ah! Monsieur Fanfar! heaven has sent you to my assistance. My
establishment is ruined, but that is nothing to the ruin of this poor
girl!"

"What poor girl?" asked Fanfar. "Pray explain yourself, Monsieur Aube."

Montferrand had heard that this Fanfar was only a rope-dancer; but his
air and manner, his dress, too, proclaimed him to hold a very different
position, and he was greatly attracted by his appearance.

"It is a disgraceful piece of business, sir," he answered, "in which, I
am sorry to say, I am in a measure concerned;--the Vicomte de Talizac--"

"I knew it!" murmured Fanfar.

"And his friend, Fernando de Vellebri--"

"The Italian spy, who betrayed his brothers, the Carbonari, and is now
the slave of the Jesuits."

"All of which I knew nothing of; but at all events these two men, whom I
have called my friends, to my shame, have carried off a young girl, a
street singer--

"A most odious crime; but have you any idea where they have taken her?"

"No, not the slightest."

"And this girl, has she no father, no mother?"

"She is an orphan, and is called the Marquise."

"Ah! but her real name? Where does she live?"

"Only a little way from here, but a man named Robeccal can tell you
exactly."

"Robeccal! A miserable scoundrel!"

"You know him then?"

"Only too well!"

"I know that the Marquise boards with a woman who is bed-ridden, and I
remember that she is sometimes spoken of as Cinette, or Francine.