at the old man's side as he sank into a chair.

"Forgive me, papa," said she in a tone that pierced Peyrade's heart, and
at the same moment he was conscious of what felt like a tremendous blow
on his head.

"I am dying!--the villains!" were his last words.

Corentin tried to help his friend, and received his latest breath.

"Dead! Poisoned!" said he to himself. "Ah! here is the doctor!" he
exclaimed, hearing the sound of wheels.

Contenson, who came with his mulatto disguise removed, stood like a
bronze statue as he heard Lydie say:

"Then you do not forgive me, father?--But it was not my fault!"

She did not understand that her father was dead.

"Oh, how he stares at me!" cried the poor crazy girl.

"We must close his eyes," said Contenson, lifting Peyrade on to the bed.

"We are doing a stupid thing," said Corentin. "Let us carry him into his
own room. His daughter is half demented, and she will go quite mad when
she sees that he is dead; she will fancy that she has killed him."

Lydie, seeing them carry away her father, looked quite stupefied.

"There lies my only friend!" said Corentin, seeming much moved when
Peyrade was laid out on the bed in his own room. "In all his life
he never had but one impulse of cupidity, and that was for his
daughter!--Let him be an example to you, Contenson. Every line of life
has its code of honor. Peyrade did wrong when he mixed himself up with
private concerns; we have no business to meddle with any but public
cases.

"But come what may, I swear," said he with a voice, an emphasis, a look
that struck horror into Contenson, "to avenge my poor Peyrade! I will
discover the men who are guilty of his death and of his daughter's ruin.
And as sure as I am myself, as I have yet a few days to live, which I
will risk to accomplish that vengeance, every man of them shall die at
four o'clock, in good health, by a clean shave on the Place de Greve."

"And I will help you," said Contenson with feeling.

Nothing, in fact, is more heart-stirring than the spectacle of passion
in a cold, self-contained, and methodical man, in whom, for twenty
years, no one has ever detected the smallest impulse of sentiment. It
is like a molten bar of iron which melts everything it touches. And
Contenson was moved to his depths.

"Poor old Canquoelle!" said he, looking at Corentin. "He has treated me
many a time.--And, I tell you, only your bad sort know how to do such
things--but often has he given