two hundred and eighty thousand francs."
He settled his hat firmly on his head, and opening the door, he added:
"Good-by, my dear madame, I will soon see you again, and in the meantime
don't deviate in the least from your usual habits. Our success depends,
in a great measure, upon the fancied security of our enemies!"

Madame d'Argeles considered this advice so sensible that half an hour
later she went out for her daily drive in the Bois, little suspecting
that M. Fortunat's spy, Victor Chupin, was dogging her carriage. It was
most imprudent on her part to have gone to Wilkie's house on her return.
She incurred such a risk of awakening suspicion by wandering about
near her son's home that she seldom allowed herself that pleasure, but
sometimes her anxiety overpowered her reason. So, on this occasion, she
ordered the coachman to stop near the Rue du Helder, and she reached the
street just in time to betray her secret to Victor Chupin, and receive a
foul insult from M. Wilkie. The latter's cruel words stabbed her to the
heart, and yet she tried to construe them as mere proofs of her son's
honesty of feeling--as proof of his scorn for the depraved creatures
who haunt the boulevards each evening. But though her energy was
indomitable, her physical strength was not equal to her will. On
returning home, she felt so ill that she was obliged to go to bed. She
shivered with cold, and yet the blood that flowed in her veins seemed to
her like molten lead. The physician who was summoned declared that her
illness was a mere trifle, but prescribed rest and quiet. And as he was
a very discerning man, he added, not without a malicious smile, that any
excess is injurious--excess of pleasure as well as any other. As it
was Sunday, Madame d'Argeles was able to obey the physician, and so she
closed her doors against every one, the baron excepted. Still, fearing
that this seclusion might seem a little strange, she ordered her
concierge to tell any visitors that she had gone into the country,
and would not return until her usual reception-day. She would then be
compelled to open her doors as usual. For what would the habitues of the
house, who had played there every Monday for years, say if they found
the doors closed? She was less her own mistress than an actress--she had
no right to weep or suffer in solitude.

So, at about seven o'clock on Monday evening, although still grievously
suffering both in mind and body, she arranged herself to