her husband was at the other end of the room to say to Rosalie: “A thousand francs a year for you, my child, if you can tell Gorenflot to leave a chink at the bottom.” Then out loud, she added coolly:

“Go and help him!”

Monsieur and Madame de Merret were silent all the time that Gorenflot took to brick up the door. This silence, on the part of the husband, who did not choose to furnish his wife with a pretext for saying things of a double meaning, had its purpose; on the part of Madame de Merret it was either pride or prudence. When the wall was about half-way up, the sly workman took advantage of a moment when the Count’s back was turned, to strike a blow with his trowel in one of the glass panes of the closet-door. This act informed Madame de Merret that Rosalie had spoken to Gorenflot.

All three then saw a man’s face; it was dark and gloomy with black hair and eyes of flame. Before her husband turned, the poor woman had time to make a sign to the stranger that signified: Hope!

At four o’clock, toward dawn, for it was the month of September, the construction was finished. The mason was handed over to the care of Jean, and Monsieur de Merret went to bed in his wife’s room.

On rising the following morning, he said carelessly:

“The deuce! I must go to the Mairie for the passport.” He put his hat on his head, advanced three steps toward the door, altered his mind and took the crucifix.

His wife trembled for joy. “He is going to Duvivier,” she thought. As soon as the Count had left, Madame de Merret rang for Rosalie; then in a terrible voice:

“The trowel, the trowel!” she cried, “and quick to work! I saw how Gorenflot did it; we shall have time to make a hole and to mend it again.”

In the twinkling of an eye, Rosalie brought a sort of mattock to her mistress, who with unparalleled ardor set about demolishing the wall. She had already knocked out several bricks and was preparing to strike a more decisive blow when she perceived Monsieur de Merret behind her. She fainted.

“Lay Madame on her bed,” said the Count coldly. He had foreseen what would happen in his absence and had set a trap for his wife; he had simply written to the mayor, and had sent for Duvivier. The jeweller arrived just as the room had been put in order.

“Duvivier,” inquired the Count, “did you buy crucifixes of the Spaniards who passed through here?”

“No, sir.”

“That will do, thank you,” he said, looking at his wife like a tiger. “Jean,” he added, “you will see that my meals are served in the Countess’s room; she is ill, and I shall not leave her until she has recovered.”

The cruel gentleman stayed with his wife for twenty days. In the beginning, when there were sounds in the walled closet, and Josephine attempted to implore his pity for the dying stranger, he replied, without permitting her to say a word:

“You have sworn on the cross that there is no one there.”