ve moment," he thought. "Heaven grant that he may not recognize
me!" And with a firm step he followed the valet.

M. de Valorsay was seated in the apartment he usually occupied when he
remained at home--a little smoking-room connected with his bedroom. He
was to all intents busily engaged in examining some sporting journals.
A bottle of Madeira and a partially filled glass stood near him. As the
servant announced "Monsieur Maumejan!" he looked up and his eyes met
Pascal's. But his glance did not waver; not a muscle of his face moved;
his countenance retained its usually cold and disdainful expression.
Evidently he had not the slightest suspicion that the man he had tried
to ruin--his mortal enemy--was standing there before him.

"M. Maumejan," said he, "Baron Trigault's agent?"

"Yes, monsieur----"

"Pray be seated. I am just finishing here; I shall be at leisure in a
moment."

Pascal took a chair. He had feared that he might not be able to retain
his self-control when he found himself in the presence of the scoundrel
who, after destroying his happiness, ruining his future, and depriving
him of his honor--dearer than life itself--was at that moment
endeavoring, by the most infamous manoeuvres, to rob him of the woman
he loved. "If my blood mounted to my brain," he had thought, "I should
spring upon him and strangle him!" But no. His arteries did not throb
more quickly; it was with perfect calmness--the calmness of a strong
nature--that he stealthily watched M. de Valorsay. If he had seen him a
week before he would have been startled by the change which the past few
days had wrought in this brilliant nobleman's appearance. He was little
more than a shadow of his former self. And seen at this hour, before
placing himself in his valet's hands, before his premature decrepitude
had been concealed by the artifices of the toilet, he was really
frightful. His face was haggard, and his red and swollen eyelids
betrayed a long-continued want of sleep.

The fact is, he had suffered terribly during the past week. A man may
be a scapegrace and a spendthrift and may boast of it; he may have no
principle and no conscience; he may be immoral, he may defy God and the
devil, but it is nevertheless true that he suffers fearful anguish
of mind when he is guilty, for the first time, of a positive crime,
forbidden by the laws and punishable with the galleys. And who can say
how many crimes the Marquis de Valorsay had committed since the