ne was the natural consequence of the other. Deserted
by her husband, Madame Paul had at last become weary of poverty and
privations. She had instituted a search for her husband, and, having
found him, she had written to him in this style: "I consent to abstain
from interfering with you, but only on conditions that you provide means
of subsistence for me, your lawfully wedded wife, and for your child. If
you refuse, I shall urge my claims, and ruin you. The scandal won't be
of much use to me, it's true, but at least I shall no longer be obliged
to endure the torture of knowing that you are surrounded by every luxury
while I am dying of starvation."

Yes, she had evidently written that. It might not be the precise text;
but no doubt it was the purport of her letter. On receiving it, Coralth
had become alarmed. He knew only too well that if his wife made herself
known and revealed his past, it would be all over with him. But he had
no money. Charming young men like the Viscount de Coralth never have
any money on hand. So, in this emergency, the dashing young fellow had
written to his wife imploring her to have patience, and to the baroness,
entreating, or rather commanding her to advance him a certain sum at
once.

This was no doubt the case, and yet there was one circumstance which
puzzled Chupin exceedingly. In former years, he had heard it asserted
that Mademoiselle Flavie was the very personification of pride, and that
she adored her husband even to madness. Had this great love vanished?
Had poverty and sorrow broken her spirit to such a degree that she was
willing to stoop to such shameful concessions! If she were acquainted
with her husband's present life, how did it happen that she did not
prefer starvation, or the alms-house and a pauper's grave to his
assistance? Chupin could understand how, in a moment of passion,
she might be driven to denounce her husband in the presence of his
fashionable acquaintances, how she might be impelled to ruin him so as
to avenge herself; but he could not possibly understand how she could
consent to profit by the ignominy of the man she loved. "The plan
isn't hers," said Chupin to himself, after a moment's reflection. "It's
probably the work of that stout old gentleman."

There was a means of verifying his suspicions, for on returning into the
adjoining room, Madame Paul had not taken her son with her. He was still
sitting on the muddy floor of the shop, playing with his dilapidat