hat we understood each other,"
he said, sadly. "For twenty years I have lived a melancholy life. I have
yielded to your caprices, I have followed your counsel, and to what end?
Look at me--my hair is gray, my face is seamed and lined. I have never
had one hour of repose. For whom have I carried this burthen? For
myself? I despise mankind, I despise power, I despise you, and despise
myself. I have but one real passion in life, and that is my love for
this wretched boy who bears my name. What have you, his mother, done
for him?"

Magdalena turned away from her husband's melancholy eyes.

"Why I love him," continued the Marquis, "I know not, except that
criminals love their children as wild beasts their young. You have
questioned me, and I have answered you. Are you satisfied?"

There came at this moment a hurried knock at the door.

"Come in!" cried the Marquis, angrily.

A valet entered with a very pale face.

"Monsieur! my young master--"

"Ah! he has come!" cried the Marquise, rushing to the door.

But the lacquey extended his arms, as if to stop her.

"Madame!" he began.

"Well! what is it?"

"My young master is dead!" said the lacquey, with trembling lips.

Then there went up the cry of two stricken hearts. The two criminals
looked at each other. They must have misunderstood the servant, who now
pointed to the stairs, up which were coming men bearing a bier. What was
underneath the cloth? Was it their son? Impossible!

A young man appeared. Magdalena rushed toward him, without a word. The
youth bowed his head.

"Yes, he is dead. Monsieur de Talizac has been killed in a duel!"

Magdalena sank upon the floor, unconscious. Fongereues laughed
hysterically.

"Nonsense! My son has fought no duel," he said.

"Yes--with Arthur de Montferrand, whose sword pierced his heart!"

Fongereues tore the cloth from the bier. Yes, it was the Vicomte de
Talizac. The wretched father tried to speak. Every muscle in his face
quivered. The servants fell back, shocked by all this agony.

"Tell me all!" he said at last.

"There is little to tell, sir, beyond the bare fact. I have, however, a
letter which the Vicomte gave me before he went on the ground."

Magdalena snatched this letter and tore it open. It contained but one
line:

"Faithless parents, I curse you with my dying breath!"

These words, coming from beyond the tomb, were terrible.

At this moment the door opened. An old man, with head uncovered a