The baron sank into an arm-chair, completely overcome. A martyr to a
passion that was stronger than reason itself, the victim of a fatal love
which he had not been able to drive from his heart, Baron Trigault had
passed many terrible hours, but never had he been so completely crushed
as at this moment when chance revealed the secret which he had vainly
pursued for years. The old wounds in his heart opened afresh, and his
sufferings were poignant beyond description. All his efforts to
save this woman whom he at once loved and hated from the depths of
degradation, had proved unavailing. "And she has extorted money from the
Count de Chalusse," he thought; "she sold him the right to adopt their
own daughter." And so strange are the workings of the human heart, that
this circumstance, trivial in comparison with many others, drove the
unfortunate baron almost frantic with rage. What did it avail him that
he had become one of the richest men in Paris? He allowed his wife eight
thousand francs a month, almost one hundred thousand francs a year,
merely for her dresses and fancies. Not a quarter-day passed, but what
he paid her debts to a large amount, and in spite of all this, she had
sunk so low as to extort money from a man who had once loved her. "What
can she do with it all?" muttered the baron, overcome with sorrow and
indignation. "How can she succeed in spending the income of several
millions?"

A name, the name of Ferdinand de Coralth, rose to his lips; but he did
not pronounce it. He saw Pascal emerging from the smoking-room; and
though he had forgotten the young advocate's very existence, his
appearance now restored him to a consciousness of reality. "Ah, well!
M. Ferailleur?" he said, like a man suddenly aroused from some terrible
nightmare. Pascal tried to make some reply, but he was unable to do
so--such a flood of incoherent thoughts was seething and foaming in
his brain. "Did you hear, M. de Valorsay?" continued the baron. "Now
we know, beyond the possibility of doubt, who Mademoiselle Marguerite's
mother is. What is to be done? What would you do in my place?"

"Ah, monsieur! how can I tell?"

"Wouldn't your first thought be of vengeance! It is mine. But upon whom
can I wreak my vengeance? Upon the Count de Chalusse? He is dead.
Upon my wife? Yes, I might do so; but I lack the courage--Mademoiselle
Marguerite remains."

"But she is innocent, monsieur; she has never wronged you."

The baron did not seem to