ften calumniated, would be her safeguard, and in her
pride as a great artist she would forget the past. It was her
salvation, her glory, and the path to fortune. She would be respected,
honored and happy. These were the dreams in which Sanselme indulged.
Perhaps, too, some honest man would give her his name, and that of Jane
Zeld would be merged in a happy matron.

It was with great joy that he took Jane to the reception at the
artist's, and here basked in the admiration and respect she received. If
she would but consent to go on the stage her fortune was secured--but
hitherto she had refused even to listen to this plan.

That evening Sanselme had been shocked to meet Benedetto. The spectre of
his past again arose before him, but he thought it impossible that
Benedetto should recognize him. He had been guilty of one imprudence.
When he heard the name of the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo, he remembered the
rage of Benedetto at Toulon, and how he had sworn to be avenged on him.

A secret instinct warned Sanselme that Benedetto would wreak his
vengeance on the son of his enemy, and concealed behind the curtain he
had given Esperance the warning that had so startled him. Then he
hurried away, aghast at what he had done. What was the young Vicomte to
him? What did he care for Benedetto's hates?

When the fire caught Jane's robe, he had been a witness of the energetic
promptness shown by the young man, and then he said to himself that he
was glad he gave the warning. And when they returned home that night,
Sanselme had never been in better spirits; it seemed to him that a
great Future was unfolding before him. To his surprise he found Jane
weeping. For the first time she had spoken angrily, but Sanselme would
have forgiven her if she had struck him.

He saw that memory still haunted her, that there was no peace or rest
for her. He wanted her to travel, but the money, where was he to get
money? And it was while tortured by these thoughts that Benedetto
appeared to him.

And this was not all. Benedetto knew his secret, and now, as if all this
were not enough, Jane herself had vanished. It was more than human
energy could support.

While Sanselme stood on the bridge absorbed in these wretched thoughts,
he heard a quick, running step. His well-trained ear could not be
deceived. It was a woman's step--if it were she? He started forward. It
was dark, and he could see nothing, and the steps were dying away. He
ran on toward the _P