Do me a favor!  On arriving in Paris without having a house prepared to receive you, it would be very friendly—­you would seem like the man of old times—­if you would take up your quarters with me, instead of going to Ville d’Avray, which, indeed, I think dangerous and even bad for you.  Stay with me, and you can thus judge of my handsome housekeeper, and you will see how much she has been calumniated and misunderstood.  You will also be near to the l’Estorades in whom I expect you to find consolations; and besides, this act would be a charming expiation for all the involuntary wrongs you have done me.  At any rate, I have given my orders, and your room is ready for you.

P.S.  You have not yet arrived, dear friend, and I must close this letter, which will be given to you by my housekeeper when you come by my house, for I am certain that your first visit will be to me.

I went this morning to the Mongenods’; the two hundred and fifty thousand francs were there, but with the accompaniment of a most extraordinary circumstance; the money was in the name of the Comte de Sallenauve, otherwise Dorlange, sculptor, 42 rue de l’Ouest.  In spite of an appellation which has never been mine, the money was mine, and was paid to me without the slightest hesitation.  I had enough presence of mind not to seem stupefied by my new name and title before the cashier; but I saw Monsieur Mongenod the elder in private, a man who enjoys the highest reputation at the Bank, and to him I expressed my astonishment, asking for whatever explanations he was able to give me.  He could give none; the money came to him through a Dutch banker, his correspondent at Rotterdam, and he knew nothing beyond that. Ah ca! what does it all mean?  Am I to be a noble?  Has the moment come for my father to acknowledge me?  I start in a state of agitation and of anxiety which you can well understand.  Until I hear from you, I shall address my letters to you here.  If you decide not to stay in my house, let me know your address at once.  Say nothing of what I have now told you to the l’Estorades; let it remain secret between us.

XIII

DORLANGE TO MARIE-GASTON

Arcis-sur-Aube, May 3, 1839.

Dear friend,—­Last evening, before Maitre Achille Pigoult, notary of this place, the burial of Charles Dorlange took place,—­that individual issuing to the world, like a butterfly from a grub, under the name and estate of Charles de Sallenauve, son of Francois-Henri-Pantaleon Dumirail, Marquis de Sallenauve.  Here follows the tale of certain facts which preceded this brilliant transformation.

Leaving Paris on the evening of May 1st, I arrived at Arcis, according to my father’s directions, on the following day.  You can believe my surprise when I saw in the street where the diligence stopped the elusive Jacques Bricheteau, whom I had not seen since our singular meeting on the Ile Saint-Louis.  This time I beheld him, instead of behaving like the dog of Jean de Nivelle, come towards me with a smile upon his lips, holding out his hand and saying:—­