"Some mention a very fascinating young actress, who performs ata theatre not a hundred miles from the Rue Vivienne; others, alady of the financial high life, whose equipages, diamonds, anddresses are justly famed.

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"We might easily, in this respect, give particulars which wouldastonish many people; for we know all; but, at the risk ofseeming less well informed than some others of our morningcontemporaries, we will observe a silence which our readers willsurely appreciate. We do not wish to add, by a prematureindiscretion, any thing to the grief of a family already socruelly stricken; for M. Favoral leaves behind him in the deepestsorrow a wife and two children, - a son of twenty-five, employedin a railroad office, and a daughter of twenty, remarkablyhandsome, who, a few months ago, came very near marrying M.

Next -"Tears of rage obscured Maxence's sight whilst reading the last fewlines of this terrible article. To find himself thus held up topublic curiosity, though innocent, was more than he could bear.

And yet he was, perhaps, still more surprised than indignant. Hehad just learned in that paper more than his father's most intimatefriends knew, more than he knew himself. Where had it got itsinformation? And what could be these other details which the writerpretended to know, but did not wish to publish as yet? Maxence feltlike running to the office of the paper, fancying that they couldtell him there exactly where and under what name M. Favoral led thatexistence of pleasure and luxury, and who the woman was to whom thearticle alluded.

But in the mean time he had reached his hotel, - the Hotel desFolies. After a moment of hesitation,"Bash!" he thought, "I have the whole day to call at the office ofthe paper.

And he started in the corridor of the hotel, a corridor that was solong, so dark, and so narrow, that it gave an idea of the shaft ofa mine, and that it was prudent, before entering it, to make surethat no one was coming in the opposite direction. It was from theneighboring theatre, des Folies-Nouvelles (now the Theatre Dejazet),that the hotel had taken its name.

It consists of the rear building of a large old house, and has nofrontage on the Boulevard, where nothing betrays its existence,except a lantern hung over a low and narrow door, between a cafand a confectionery-shop. It is one of those hotels, as there area good many in Paris, somewhat mysterious and suspicious, ill-kept,and whose profits remain a mystery for simple-minded folks. Whooccupy the apartments of the first and second story? No one knows.

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Never have the most curious of the neighbors discovered the faceof a tenant. And yet they are occupied; for often, in theafternoon, a curtain is drawn aside, and a shadow is seen to move.

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In the evening, lights are noticed within; and sometimes the soundof a cracked old piano is heard.

Above the second story, the mystery ceases. All the upper rooms,the price of which is relatively modest, are occupied by tenantswho may be seen and heard, - clerks like Maxence, shop-girls fromthe neighborhood, a few restaurant-waiters, and sometimes some poordevil of an actor or chorus-singer from the Theatre Dejazet, theCircus, or the Chateau d'Eau. One of the great advantages of theHotel des Folies - and Mme. Fortin, the landlady, never failed topoint it out to the new tenants, an inestimable advantage, shedeclared - was a back entrance on the Rue Beranger.

"And everybody knows," she concluded, "that there is no chance ofbeing caught, when one has the good luck of living in a house thathas two outlets."When Maxence entered the office, a small, dark, and dirty room,the proprietors, M. and Mme. Fortin were just finishing theirbreakfast with an immense bowl of coffee of doubtful color, ofwhich an enormous red cat was taking a share.

"Ah, here is M. Favoral!" they exclaimed.

There was no mistaking their tone. They knew the catastrophe;and the newspaper lying on the table showed how they had heard it.

"Some one called to see you last night," said Mme. Fortin, a largefat woman, whose nose was always besmeared with snuff, and whosehoneyed voice made a marked contrast with her bird-of-prey look.

"Who?""A gentleman of about fifty, tall and thin, with a long overcoat,coming down to his heels."Maxence imagined, from this description, that he recognized his ownfather. And yet it seemed impossible, after what had happened, thathe should dare to show himself on the Boulevard du Temple, whereeverybody knew him, within a step of the Caf Turc, of which hewas one of the oldest customers.

"At what o'clock was he here?" he inquired.