"It is evident," she resumed, "that M. de Coralth is the
author of this abominable plot. But what could have been his
object? Has he any reason to fear you, Pascal? Has he confided to
you, or have you discovered, any secret that might ruin him if it
were divulged?"
"No, mother."
"Then he must be the vile instrument of some even more despicable
being. Reflect, my son. Have you wounded any of your friends?
Are you sure that you are in nobody's way? Consider carefully.
Your profession has its dangers; and those who adopt it must
expect to make bitter enemies."
Pascal trembled. It seemed to him as if a ray of light at last
illumined the darkness--a dim and uncertain ray, it is true, but
still a gleam of light.
"Who knows!" he muttered; "who knows!"
Madame Ferailleur reflected a few moments, and the nature of her
reflections brought a flush to her brow. "This is one of those
cases in which a mother should overstep reserve," said she. "If
you had a mistress, my son----"
"I have none," he answered, promptly. Then his own face flushed,
and after an instant's hesitation, he added: "But I entertain the
most profound and reverent love for a young girl, the most
beautiful and chaste being on earth--a girl who, in intelligence
and heart, is worthy of you, my own mother."
Madame Ferailleur nodded her head gravely, as much as to say that
she had expected to find a woman at the bottom of the mystery.
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