aircase, he invited Wilkie to enter, saying, "If monsieur will
be kind enough to take a seat, I will summon madame at once."

M. Wilkie sank into an arm-chair, considerably overcome. The air of
luxury that pervaded the entire establishment, the liveried servants,
the lights and flowers, all impressed him much more deeply than he would
have been willing to confess. And in spite of his affected arrogance,
he felt that the superb assurance which was the dominant trait in his
character was deserting him. In his breast, moreover, in the place where
physiologists locate the heart, he felt certain extraordinary movements
which strongly resembled palpitations. For the first time it occurred
to him that this woman, whose peace he had come to destroy, was not only
the heiress of the Count de Chalusse's millions, but also his mother,
that is to say, the good fairy whose protection had followed him
everywhere since he entered the world. The thought that he was about to
commit an atrocious act entered his mind, but he drove it away. It was
too late now to draw back, or even to reflect.

Suddenly a door opposite the one by which he had entered opened, and
Madame d'Argeles appeared on the threshold. She was no longer the woman
whose anguish and terror had alarmed her guests. During the brief moment
of respite which fate had granted her, she had summoned all her energy
and courage, and had mastered her despair. She felt that her salvation
depended upon her calmness, and she had succeeded in appearing calm,
haughty, and disdainful--as impassive as if she had been a statue. "Was
it you, sir, who sent me this card?" she inquired.

Greatly disconcerted, M. Wilkie could only bow and stammer out an almost
unintelligible answer. "Excuse me! I am much grieved, upon my word! I
disturb you, perhaps----"

"You are Monsieur Wilkie!" interrupted Madame d'Argeles, in a tone of
mingled irony and disdain.

"Yes," he replied, drawling out the name affectedly, "I am M. Wilkie."

"Did you desire to speak with me?" inquired Madame d'Argeles, dryly.

"In fact--yes. I should like----"

"Very well. I will listen to you, although your visit is most
inopportune, for I have eighty guests or more in my drawing-room. Still,
speak!"

It was very easy to say "speak," but unfortunately for M. Wilkie he
could not articulate a syllable. His tongue was as stiff, and as dry, as
if it had been paralyzed. He nervously passed and repassed his fingers
between his