no further uneasiness touching the affair in question.
The man named Gratien Bourignard, otherwise called Ferragus, died
yesterday, at his lodgings, rue Joquelet No. 7. The suspicions we
naturally conceived as to the identity of the dead body have been
completely set at rest by the facts. The physician of the
Prefecture of police was despatched by us to assist the physician
of the arrondissement, and the chief of the detective police made
all the necessary verifications to obtain absolute certainty.
Moreover, the character of the persons who signed the certificate
of death, and the affidavits of those who took care of the said
Bourignard in his last illness, among others that of the worthy
vicar of the church of the Bonne-Nouvelle (to whom he made his
last confession, for he died a Christian), do not permit us to
entertain any sort of doubt.

Accept, Monsieur le baron, etc., etc.

Monsieur de Maulincour, the dowager, and the vidame breathed again with
joy unspeakable. The good old woman kissed her grandson leaving a tear
upon his cheek, and went away to thank God in prayer. The dear soul,
who was making a novena for Auguste's safety, believed her prayers were
answered.

"Well," said the vidame, "now you had better show yourself at the ball
you were speaking of. I oppose no further objections."

CHAPTER III. THE WIFE ACCUSED

Monsieur de Maulincour was all the more anxious to go to this ball
because he knew that Madame Jules would be present. The fete was given
by the Prefect of the Seine, in whose salons the two social worlds of
Paris met as on neutral ground. Auguste passed through the rooms without
finding the woman who now exercised so mighty an influence on his fate.
He entered an empty boudoir where card-tables were placed awaiting
players; and sitting down on a divan he gave himself up to the most
contradictory thoughts about her. A man presently took the young officer
by the arm, and looking up the baron was stupefied to behold the pauper
of the rue Coquilliere, the Ferragus of Ida, the lodger in the rue Soly,
the Bourignard of Justin, the convict of the police, and the dead man of
the day before.

"Monsieur, not a sound, not a word," said Bourignard, whose voice he
recognized. The man was elegantly dressed; he wore the order of the
Golden-Fleece, and a medal on his coat. "Monsieur," he continued, and
his voice was sibilant like that of a hyena, "you increase my efforts