CHAPTER I."THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH".
Near eleven o'clock, one evening in the month of May, a man about fifty years of age, well formed, and of noble carriage, stepped from a coupe in the courtyard of a small hotel in the Rue Barbet-de-Jouy.

He ascended, with the walk of a master, the steps leading to the entrance, to the hall where several servants awaited him.

One of them followed him into an elegant study on the first floor, which communicated with a handsome bedroom, separated from it by a curtained arch.

The valet arranged the fire, raised the lamps in both rooms, and was about to retire, when his master spoke: "Has my son returned home ?" "No, Monsieur le Comte.

Monsieur is not ill ?" "Ill! Why ?" "Because Monsieur le Comte is so pale." "Ah! It is only a slight cold I have taken this evening on the banks of the lake." "Will Monsieur require anything ?" "Nothing," replied the Count briefly, and the servant retired.