he was compelled to accept a situation in the counting-house of a
merchant of the Marais, and to give up the chase and the working out
of the catastrophe he had planned for his Vendetta.

A couple of years afterwards, Giustiniani had occasion to go to one of
the towns of the north of France--Lille, I believe. In its
neighbourhood, as my narrator told me--and on him I throw the whole
responsibility, if there seem anything improbable in what is to
come--the young man was once more overtaken by a storm, and compelled
to seek refuge in a cottage, which the gleams of the lightning
revealed to him. This time he was on foot, and after knocking at the
door, was admitted at once by a young woman, who seemed to have been
waiting in the passage for his arrival. She was about to throw herself
into his arms, when suddenly she started back, and exclaimed: 'It is
not he!' Taking up a candle, which she had placed on the floor, she
cast its light on her own face and that of the stranger, who had
remained immovable, as if petrified by the sound of her voice.
'Madam,' said he, brought to himself by this action, 'I am a stranger
in these parts, overtaken by the storm, and I beg an hour's
hospitality.'

'You are welcome, sir,' replied Marie, the wife of Bartuccio, for it
was she; but she did not at the moment recognise the unfortunate man
who stood before her.

They were soon in a comfortable room, where was M. Brivard, now
somewhat broken by age, and a cradle, in which slept a handsome boy
about a year old. Giustiniani, after the interchange of a few
words--perhaps in order to avoid undergoing too close an examination
of his countenance--bent over the cradle to peruse the features of the
child; and the pillow was afterwards found wet with tears. By an
involuntary motion, he clutched at the place where the poniard was
wont to be, and then sat down upon a chair that stood in a dim corner.
A few minutes afterwards, Bartuccio came joyously into the room,
embraced his wife, asked her if she was cold, for she trembled very
much--spoke civilly to the stranger, and began to throw off his wet
cloak and coat. At this moment the tall form of Giustiniani rose like
a phantom in the corner, and passions, which he himself had thought
smothered, worked through his worn countenance. Brivard saw and now
understood, and was nailed to his chair by unspeakable terror, whilst
Bartuccio gaily called for his slippers. Suddenly Marie, who had
watched every mot