cause of the quarrel--an altercation at the Cercle
de la Rue Boissy d'Anglas, which took place over the card-table.

Such was the announcement in a daily paper that met the eyes of
Jacqueline, as she lay hidden in Modeste's lodging, like a fawn in its
covert, her eyes and ears on the alert, watching for the least sign of
alarm, in fear and trembling. She expected something, she knew not what;
she felt that her sad adventure at Monaco could not fail to have its
epilogue; but this was one of which she never had dreamed.

"Modeste, give me my hat! Get me a carriage! Quick! Oh, my God, it is my
fault!--I have killed him!"

These incoherent cries came from her lips while Modeste, in alarm,
picked up the newspaper and adjusted her silver spectacles upon her nose
to read the paragraph. "Monsieur Fred wounded! Holy Virgin! His poor
mother! That is a new trouble fallen on her, to be sure. But this
quarrel had nothing to do with you, my pet; you see they say it was
about cards."

And folding up the Figaro, while Jacqueline in all haste was wrapping
her head in a veil, Modeste, with the best intentions, went on to say:
"Nobody ever dies of a sword-thrust in the arm."

"But you see it says that they are going to fight all over again--don't
you understand? You are so stupid! What could they have had to quarrel
about but me? O God! Thou art just! This is indeed punishment--too much
punishment for me!"

So saying, she ran down the many stairs that led up to Modeste's little
lodging in the roof, her feet hardly touching them as she ran, while
Modeste followed her more slowly, crying: "Wait for me! Wait for me,
Mademoiselle!"

Calling a fiacre, Jacqueline, almost roughly, pushed the old woman into
it, and gave the coachman the address of Madame d'Argy, having, in her
excitement, first given him that of their old house in the Parc Monceau,
so much was she possessed by the idea that this was a repetition of
that dreadful day, when with Modeste, just as now, she went to meet
an irreparable loss. She seemed to see before her her dead father--he
looked like Fred, and now, as before, Marien had his part in the
tragedy. Could he not have prevented the duel? Could he not have done
something to prevent Fred from exposing himself? The wound might be no
worse than it was said to be in the newspaper--but then a second meeting
was to take place. No!--it should not, she would stop it at any price!

And yet, as the coach drew nearer to the