Jules gave him the forged letter.

“This Ferragus, this Bourignard, or this Monsieur de Funcal, is a demon!” cried Maulincour, after having read it.  “Oh, what a frightful maze I put my foot into when I meddled in this matter!  Where am I going?  I did wrong, monsieur,” he continued, looking at Jules; “but death is the greatest of all expiations, and my death is now approaching.  You can ask me whatever you like; I am at your orders.”

“Monsieur, you know, of course, where this man is living, and I must know it if it costs me all my fortune to penetrate this mystery.  In presence of so cruel an enemy every moment is precious.”

“Justin shall tell you all,” replied the baron.

At these words the vidame fidgeted on his chair.  Auguste rang the bell.

“Justin is not in the house!” cried the vidame, in a hasty manner that told much.

“Well, then,” said Auguste, excitedly, “the other servants must know where he is; send a man on horseback to fetch him.  Your valet is in Paris, isn’t he?  He can be found.”

The vidame was visibly distressed.

“Justin can’t come, my dear boy,” said the old man; “he is dead.  I wanted to conceal the accident from you, but—­”

“Dead!” cried Monsieur de Maulincour,—­“dead!  When and how?”

“Last night.  He had been supping with some old friends, and, I dare say, was drunk; his friends—­no doubt they were drunk, too—­left him lying in the street, and a heavy vehicle ran over him.”

“The convict did not miss him; at the first stroke he killed,” said Auguste.  “He has had less luck with me; it has taken four blows to put me out of the way.”

Jules was gloomy and thoughtful.

“Am I to know nothing, then?” he cried, after a long pause.  “Your valet seems to have been justly punished.  Did he not exceed your orders in calumniating Madame Desmarets to a person named Ida, whose jealousy he roused in order to turn her vindictiveness upon us?”

“Ah, monsieur! in my anger I informed him about Madame Jules,” said Auguste.

“Monsieur!” cried the husband, keenly irritated.

“Oh, monsieur!” replied the baron, claiming silence by a gesture, “I am prepared for all.  You cannot tell me anything my own conscience has not already told me.  I am now expecting the most celebrated of all professors of toxicology, in order to learn my fate.  If I am destined to intolerable suffering, my resolution is taken.  I shall blow my brains out.”

“You talk like a child!” cried the vidame, horrified by the coolness with which the baron said these words.  “Your grandmother would die of grief.”

“Then, monsieur,” said Jules, “am I to understand that there exist no means of discovering in what part of Paris this extraordinary man resides?”