Bleury!

"If what Monsieur says is true," he exclaimed to the Honorable, throwing
out his clenched hand,--"if these letters are found upon those notes,
then I understand it. I can prove that this infernal, greasy,
treacherous devil,--be he friend or traitor, or whatever he chooses to
be, to the Bleu party or myself,--committed that despicable larceny and
has wronged that poor young man. I was on the steamboat. I saw it. I saw
him do it to his friend. Talking to the purser, I saw the act, but could
not believe it a reality. On the parole of all my ancestors, I would
never go back on a common thief, I would keep faith inviolate with a
parricide, I have a secret sympathy with every brigand, but I have no
place out of _l'enfer_ itself for a traitor, _Dieu merci_."

"Swear the informant," said the Magistrate.

The picture at this instant of the frightened face of Spoon who
collapsed into a seat by the Bar, of the excitement of the crowd, which
had been gradually brought to a climax, the disgust of Libergent, relief
of Chrysler, satisfaction of the little Bonhomme and his wife, the
cynical roll of Zotique's eyes round the room, and serene, judicial face
of the Honorable on the bench above, would have made the reputation of
the greatest painter in Paris.

After all, Spoon was remanded for trial, and in due time, the Queen's
Bench Court condemned him to the fullest penalty of the law for his
murderous assault and larceny.

Francois meanwhile recovered, and was taken, pale and weak, but
indescribably happy, in a carriage one morning beside Josephte to
church, where the young Cure made her his faithful bride.

As for Benoit, "_il est tout en campagne_," they said. In less
expressive terms, "his mind was hopelessly wandering."

* * * * *

To return to our current day however; in the evening Chamilly came into
the drawing room with some more manuscript, which he handed to Chrysler.

"Here is the rest of the story I have been writing," said he, "take it
sir and may it amuse you a little; it is the key to the rest. I am going
out on the River." And he went-out of the Manoir door into the storm.

The manuscript proceeded as follows:

BOOK III.

BOOK OF ENTHUSIASMS (CONTINUED.)

CHAPTER XLII.

QUINET'S CONTRIBUTION

"O, skyward-looking, fleet-winged soul,
Earth hath no name for thine ideal flower!"

--MARY MORGAN.

For a night and a day after my talk with my fa