d been so useful to Monte-Cristo years before.
The path by which Esperance had come crossed the Champs Elysees under
ground, and communicated with this house.

All was magnificent, but Esperance saw nothing. Nothing but a lacquer
table on which lay a letter. This letter contained the words, "If the
son of Monte-Cristo be not a coward, if he wishes to find her whom he
has lost, he will go from here to a certain Malvernet, who lives at
Courberrie. There he will learn what he wishes to know, and will act as
he deems best."

Esperance was delighted. He did not stop to think of the singularity of
finding this note in this place. What did he care for this mystery that
surrounded him? He had found Jane Zeld, or rather he had found traces of
her. He went to the chimney to look at the clock, for he had lost all
idea of time, and happening to see his own face in the mirror, he could
not repress a start. He looked to himself at least ten years older than
when he last stood before a mirror. He wondered at himself, when he
remembered his father, whose youth seemed eternal, in spite of the
trials through which he had passed. When he went out from the hotel the
first time he had mechanically put in his pocket a pair of revolvers--he
had them now.

CHAPTER LXI.

ESPERANCE GOES TO COURBERRIE.

Twenty years since Courberrie was very far from what it is to-day. The
houses were scattered and much fewer. Along the Seine extended deserted
fields, against which the sullen tide rose and fell. In one of these
fields stood an old wooden house which was not inhabited, for both wind
and rain penetrated its roof and walls. On this especial night, however,
any one familiar with the locality would have been astonished to see a
light gleam through the worm-eaten shutters. In one room was a chair and
a table. On the table was a lamp, but there was no other furniture.

Pacing the room, and occasionally stopping to listen to the storm that
shook the old house like the bones of a skeleton, was a man--a reddish
beard covered half his face. He was dressed in black, and had thrown a
cloak and broad-brimmed hat on the table.

"Will he come?" he muttered, "will the long-expected hour ever strike?"

A slight sound was heard without. The dry branches crackled; the man
started, then snatched his hat and pulled it well down over his
forehead. The hand that was hidden in the folds of the cloak which he
threw over his shoulders, held a dagger.

"I