rcerf, peer of France."

"What must then be done?"

"What I have done, Albert. I reasoned thus--money, time, and fatigue are
nothing compared with the reputation and interests of a whole family;
probabilities will not suffice, only facts will justify a deadly combat
with a friend. If I strike with the sword, or discharge the contents
of a pistol at man with whom, for three years, I have been on terms of
intimacy, I must, at least, know why I do so; I must meet him with a
heart at ease, and that quiet conscience which a man needs when his own
arm must save his life."

"Well," said Morcerf, impatiently, "what does all this mean?"

"It means that I have just returned from Yanina."

"From Yanina?"

"Yes."

"Impossible!"

"Here is my passport; examine the visa--Geneva, Milan, Venice, Trieste,
Delvino, Yanina. Will you believe the government of a republic, a
kingdom, and an empire?" Albert cast his eyes on the passport, then
raised them in astonishment to Beauchamp. "You have been to Yanina?"
said he.

"Albert, had you been a stranger, a foreigner, a simple lord, like that
Englishman who came to demand satisfaction three or four months since,
and whom I killed to get rid of, I should not have taken this trouble;
but I thought this mark of consideration due to you. I took a week to
go, another to return, four days of quarantine, and forty-eight hours
to stay there; that makes three weeks. I returned last night, and here I
am."

"What circumlocution! How long you are before you tell me what I most
wish to know?"

"Because, in truth, Albert"--

"You hesitate?"

"Yes,--I fear."

"You fear to acknowledge that your correspondent his deceived you? Oh,
no self-love, Beauchamp. Acknowledge it, Beauchamp; your courage cannot
be doubted."

"Not so," murmured the journalist; "on the contrary"--

Albert turned frightfully pale; he endeavored to speak, but the words
died on his lips. "My friend," said Beauchamp, in the most affectionate
tone, "I should gladly make an apology; but, alas,"--

"But what?"

"The paragraph was correct, my friend."

"What? That French officer"--

"Yes."

"Fernand?"

"Yes."

"The traitor who surrendered the castle of the man in whose service he
was"--

"Pardon me, my friend, that man was your father!" Albert advanced
furiously towards Beauchamp, but the latter restrained him more by a
mild look than by his extended hand.

"My friend," said he, "here is a proof of it."

Albe