“I have not done yet,” he said rudely.

And, without suffering any interruption,

“From this correspondence,” he resumed, “resulted the flagrant, irrefutable proof of a shameful intrigue, long since suspected by my old friend, General Count de Villegre.  It became evident to me that my poor father had been most shamefully imposed upon by that mistress, so handsome and so dearly loved, and, later, despoiled by the husband of that mistress.  But all this availed me nothing.  Being ignorant of my father’s life and connections, the letters giving neither a name nor a precise detail, I knew not whom to accuse.  Besides, in order to accuse, it is necessary to have, at least, some material proof.”

The baroness had resumed her seat; and every thing about her—­her attitude, her gestures, the motion of her lips—­seemed to say,

“You are my guest.  Civility has its demands; but really you abuse your privileges.”

M. de Tregars went on,

“At this moment I was still a sort of savage, wholly absorbed in my experiments, and scarcely ever setting foot outside my laboratory.  I was indignant; I ardently wished to find and to punish the villains who had robbed us:  but I knew not how to go about it, nor in what direction to seek information.  The wretches would, perhaps, have gone unpunished, but for a good and worthy man, now a commissary of police, to whom I once rendered a slight service, one night, in a riot, when he was close pressed by some half-dozen rascals.  I explained the situation to him:  he took much interest in it, promised his assistance, and marked out my line of conduct.”

Mme. de Thaller seemed restless upon her seat.

“I must confess,” she began, “that I am not wholly mistress of my time.  I am dressed, as you see:  I have to go out.”

If she had preserved any hope of adjourning the explanation which she felt coming, she must have lost it when she heard the tone in which M. de Tregars interrupted her.

“You can go out to-morrow.”

And, without hurrying,

“Advised, as I have just told you,” he continued, “and assisted by the experience of a professional man, I went first to No. 3, Rue des Bergers, in Grenelle.  I found there some old people, the foreman of a neighboring factory and his wife, who had been living in the house for nearly twenty-five years.  At my first question, they exchanged a glance, and commenced laughing.  They remembered perfectly the Marquise de Javelle, which was but a nickname for a young and pretty laundress, whose real name was Euphrasie Taponnet.  She had lived for eighteen months on the same landing as themselves:  she had a lover, who passed himself off for a clerk, but who was, in fact, she had told them, a very wealthy nobleman.  They added that she had given birth to a little girl, and that, two weeks later she had disappeared, and they had never heard a word from her.  When I left them, they said to me, ’If you see Phrasie, ask her if she ever knew old Chandour and his wife.  I am sure she’ll remember us.’”