id
your hand upon any one, it is all over. Adieu, independence; one must
obey you. Nevertheless, it was a vast and beautiful conception."

"Very well. Marechal, see that my nephew has ten thousand francs. And
you, Savinien, remember that I see no more of you."

"Until the money is spent!" murmured Marechal, in the ear of Madame
Desvarennes's nephew.

And taking him by the arm he was leading him toward the safe when the
mistress turned to Savinien and said:

"By the way, what is your invention?"

"Aunt, it is a threshing machine," answered the young man, gravely.

"Rather a machine for coining money," said the incorrigible Marechal, in
an undertone.

"Well; bring me your plans," resumed Madame Desvarennes, after having
reflected a moment. "Perchance you may have hit upon something."

The mistress had been generous, and now the woman of business reasserted
herself and she thought of reaping the benefit.

Savinien seemed very confused at this demand, and as his aunt gave him
an interrogative look, he confessed:

"There are no drawings made as yet."

"No drawings as yet?" cried the mistress. "Where then is your
invention?"

"It is here," replied Savinien, and with an inspired gesture he struck
his narrow forehead.

Madame Desvarennes and Marechal could not resist breaking out into a
laugh.

"And you were already talking of issuing shares?" said the mistress.
"Do you think people would have paid their money with your brain as sole
guarantee? You! Get along; I am the only one to make bargains like that,
and you are the only one with whom I make them. Go, Marechal, give him
his money; I won't gainsay it. But you are a trickster, as usual!"

CHAPTER III. PIERRE RETURNS

By a wave of her hand she dismissed Savinien, who, abashed, went out
with Marechal. Left alone, she seated herself at her secretary's desk,
and taking the pile of letters she signed them. The pen flew in her
fingers, and on the paper was displayed her name, written in large
letters in a man's handwriting.

She had been occupied thus for about a quarter of an hour when Marechal
reappeared. Behind him came a stout thickset man of heavy build, and
gorgeously dressed. His face, surrounded by a bristly dark brown beard,
and his eyes overhung by bushy eyebrows, gave him, at the first glance,
a harsh appearance. But his mouth promptly banished this impression. His
thick and sensual lips betrayed voluptuous tastes. A disciple of Lavater
or G