ld to their generous impulses sufficiently
to offer twenty sous for one of the dainty trifles on your etageres."

Overcome with shame, Madame d'Argeles hung her head. She had never
before so keenly felt the disgrace of her situation. She had never
so clearly realized what a deep abyss she had fallen into. And
this crushing humiliation came from whom? From the only friend she
possessed--from the man who was her only hope, Baron Trigault.

And what made it all the more frightful was, that he did not seem to be
in the least degree conscious of the cruelty of his words. Indeed,
he continued, in a tone of bitter irony: "Of course, you will have
an exhibition before the sale, and you will see all the dolls that
hairdressers, milliners and fools call great ladies, come running to
the show. They will come to see how a notorious woman lives, and to
ascertain if there are any good bargains to be had. This is the
right form. These great ladies would be delighted to display diamonds
purchased at the sale of a woman of the demi monde. Oh! don't fear--your
exhibition will be visited by my wife and daughter, by the Viscountess
de Bois d'Ardon, by Madame de Rochecote, her five daughters, and a great
many more. Then the papers will take up the refrain; they will give an
account of your financial difficulties, and tell the public what you
paid for your pictures."

It was with a sort of terror-stricken curiosity that Madame d'Argeles
watched the baron. It had been many years since she had seen him in such
a frame of mind--since she had heard him talk in such a cynical fashion.
"I am ready to follow your advice," said she, "but afterward?"

"What, don't you understand the object I have in view? Afterward you
will disappear. I know five or six journalists; and it would be very
strange if I could not convince one of them that you had died upon an
hospital pallet. It will furnish the subject of a touching, and what
is better, a moral article. The papers will say, 'Another star has
disappeared. This is the miserable end of all the poor wretches whose
passing luxury scandalizes honest women.'"

"And what will become of me?"

"A respected woman, Lia. You will go to England, install yourself in
some pretty cottage near London, and create a new identity for yourself.
The proceeds of your sale will supply your wants and Wilkie's for more
than a year. Before that time has elapsed you will have succeeded in
accumulating the necessary proofs of