ulted party--and I choose swords!"

A frightful oath from the baron somewhat hastened M. Wilkie's exit. He
went out into the hall, and holding the door open, in a way that would
enable him to close it at the shortest notice, he shouted back, so as to
be heard by all the servants: "Yes; I will have satisfaction. I will not
stand such treatment. Is it any fault of mine that Madame d'Argeles is a
Chalusse, and that she wishes to defraud me of my fortune. To-morrow, I
call you all to witness, there will be a lawyer here. You don't frighten
me. Here is my card!" And actually, before he closed the door, he threw
one of his cards into the middle of the room.

The baron did not trouble himself to pick it up; his attention was
devoted to Madame d'Argeles. She was lying back in her arm-chair, white,
motionless and rigid, to all appearance dead. What should the baron
do? He did not wish to call the servants; they had heard too much
already--but he had almost decided to do so, when his eyes fell upon a
tiny aquarium, in a corner of the room. He dipped his handkerchief in
it; and alternately bathed Madame d'Argeles's temples and chafed her
hands. It was not long before the cold water revived her. She trembled,
a convulsive shudder shook her from head to foot, and at last she opened
her eyes, murmuring: "Wilkie!"

"I have sent him away," replied the baron.

Poor woman! with returning life came the consciousness of the terrible
reality. "He is my son!" she moaned, "my son, my Wilkie!" Then with a
despairing gesture she pressed her hands to her forehead as if to calm
its throbbings. "And I believed that my sin was expiated," she pursued.
"I thought I had been sufficiently punished. Fool that I was! This is my
chastisement, Jacques. Ah! women like me have no right to be mothers!"

A burning tear coursed down the baron's cheek; but he concealed his
emotion as well as he could, and said, in a tone of assumed gayety:
"Nonsense! Wilkie is young--he will mend his ways! We were all
ridiculous when we were twenty. We have all caused our mothers many
anxious nights. Time will set everything to rights, and put some ballast
in this young madcap's brains. Besides, your friend Patterson doesn't
seem to me quite free from blame. In knowledge of books, he may have
been unequalled; but as a guardian for youth, he must have been the
worst of fools. After keeping your son on a short allowance for years,
he suddenly gorges him with oats--or I should