erhaps, of any
sacrifice to save him. It was even more stupid than infamous to think
so, but, as we have said already, Jacques Ferrand sometimes, though
rarely, forgot himself.

He quitted his chair abruptly, and approached Madame de Lucenay, who,
surprised, rose when he did, and looked at him with much astonishment.

"Nothing will be a sacrifice to you, say you? To you, who are so
lovely?" he exclaimed, with a voice trembling and broken with agitation,
as he went towards the duchess. "Well, then, I will lend you this sum,
on one condition,--one condition only,--and I swear to you--"

He could not finish his declaration.

By one of those singular contradictions of human nature, at the sight of
the singularly ugly features of M. Ferrand, at the strange and whimsical
thoughts which arose in Madame de Lucenay's mind, at his ridiculous
pretensions, which she guessed in spite of her disquietude and anxiety,
she burst into a fit of laughter, so hearty, so loud, and so excessive,
that the disconcerted notary reeled back. Then, without allowing him a
moment to utter another word, the duchess gave way still more to her
increasing mirth, lowered her veil, and, between two bursts of
irrepressible laughter, she said to the notary, overwhelmed by hatred,
rage, and fury:

"Really, I should much rather prefer asking this advance from M. de
Lucenay."

She then left the room, laughing so heartily that, even when the door of
his room was closed, the notary heard her still.

Jacques Ferrand no sooner recovered his reason than he cursed his
imprudence; but he became reassured on reflecting that the duchess could
not allude to this adventure without compromising herself. Still, the
day had been unpropitious, and he was plunged in thought when the door
of his study opened, and Madame Seraphin entered in great agitation.

"Ah, Ferrand," she exclaimed, "you were right when you declared that,
one day or other, we should be ruined for having allowed her to live!"

"Who?"

"That cursed little girl!"

"What do you mean?"

"A one-eyed woman, whom I did not know, and to whom Tournemine gave the
little chit to get rid of her, fourteen years ago, when we wished to
make her pass for dead--Ah, who would have thought it!"

"Speak! Speak! Why don't you speak?"

"This one-eyed woman has been here, was down-stairs just now, and told
me that she knew it was I who had delivered up the little brat."

"Malediction! Who could have told her? To