“Of course I do,” cried Goupil.  “I’ve swallowed too many affronts not to succeed now.  I beg you to believe, monsieur, that the miserable creature once called Goupil has nothing in common with Maitre Jean-Sebastien-Marie Goupil, notary of Nemours and husband of Mademoiselle Massin.  The two beings do not know each other.  They are no longer even alike.  Look at me!”

Thus adjured Monsieur Bongrand took notice of Goupil’s clothes.  The new notary wore a white cravat, a shirt of dazzling whiteness adorned with ruby buttons, a waistcoat of red velvet, with trousers and coat of handsome black broad-cloth, made in Paris.  His boots were neat; his hair, carefully combed, was perfumed—­in short he was metamorphosed.

“The fact is you are another man,” said Bongrand.

“Morally as well as physically.  Virtue comes with practice—­a practice; besides, money is the source of cleanliness—­”

“Morally as well as physically,” returned Bongrand, settling his spectacles.

“Ha! monsieur, is a man worth a hundred thousand francs a year ever a democrat?  Consider me in future as an honest man who knows what refinement is, and who intends to love his wife,” said Goupil; “and what’s more, I shall prevent my clients from ever doing dirty actions.”

“Well, make haste,” said Bongrand.  “Let me have that copy in an hour, and notary Goupil will have undone some of the evil deeds of Goupil the clerk.”

After asking the Nemours doctor to lend him his horse and cabriolet, he went back to Ursula’s house for the two important volumes and for her own certificate of Funds; then, armed with the extract from the inventory, he drove to Fontainebleau and had an interview with the procureur du roi.  Bongrand easily convinced that official of the theft of the three certificates by one or other of the heirs,—­presumably by Minoret.

“His conduct is explained,” said the procureur.

As a measure of precaution the magistrate at once notified the Treasury to withhold transfer of the said certificates, and told Bongrand to go to Paris and ascertain if the shares had ever been sold.  He then wrote a polite note to Madame Minoret requesting her presence.

Zelie, very uneasy about her son’s duel, dressed herself at once, had the horses put to her carriage and hurried to Fontainebleau.  The procureur’s plan was simple enough.  By separating the wife from the husband, and bringing the terrors of the law to bear upon her, he expected to learn the truth.  Zelie found the official in his private office and was utterly annihilated when he addressed her as follows:—­

“Madame,” he said; “I do not believe you are an accomplice in a theft that has been committed upon the Minoret property, on the track of which the law is now proceeding.  But you can spare your husband the shame of appearing in the prisoner’s dock by making a full confession of what you know about it.  The punishment which your husband has incurred is, moreover, not the only thing to be dreaded.  Your son’s career is to be thought of; you must avoid destroying that.  Half an hour hence will be too late.  The police are already under orders for Nemours, the warrant is made out.”