me, madame!" said he; "'tis not so easy to tackle a dog of
that build."

"I will give you twenty francs; only kill him before me."

"One ought to have a gun, and I have only an iron hammer."

"That will do; you can knock him down at a blow."

"Well, madame--I will try--but I have my doubts." And Nicholas went to
fetch his mallet.

"Oh! if I had the strength!" said Mrs. Grivois.

The porter returned with his weapon, and advanced slowly and
treacherously towards Spoil-sport, who was still crouching beneath the
porch. "Here, old fellow! here, my good dog!" said Nicholas striking his
left hand on his thigh, and keeping his right behind him, with the
crowbar grasped in it.

Spoil-sport rose, examined Nicholas attentively, and no doubt perceiving
by his manner that the porter meditated some evil design, bounded away
from him, outflanked the enemy, saw clearly what was intended, and kept
himself at a respectful distance.

"He smells a rat," said Nicholas; "the rascal's on his guard. He will not
let me come near him. It's no go."

"You are an awkward fellow," said Mrs. Grivois in a passion, as she threw
a five-franc piece to Nicholas: "at all events, drive him away."

"That will be easier than to kill him, madame," said the porter. Indeed,
finding himself pursued, and conscious probably that it would be useless
to attempt an open resistance, Spoil-sport fled from the court-yard into
the street; but once there, he felt himself, as it were, upon neutral
ground, and notwithstanding all the threats of Nicholas, refused to
withdraw an inch further than just sufficient to keep out of reach of the
sledge-hammer. So that when Mrs. Grivois, pale with rage, again stepped
into her hackney-coach, in which were My Lord's lifeless remains, she saw
with the utmost vexation that Spoil-sport was lying at a few steps from
the gate, which Nicholas had just closed, having given up the chase in
despair.

The Siberian dog, sure of finding his way back to the Rue Brise-Miche,
had determined, with the sagacity peculiar to his race, to wait for the
orphans on the spot where he then was.

Thus were the two sisters confined in St. Mary's Convent, which, as we
have already said, was next door to the lunatic asylum in which Adrienne
de Cardoville was immured.

We now conduct the reader to the dwelling of Dagobert's wife, who was
waiting with dreadful anxiety for the return of her husband, knowing that
he would call her to account for the d