“At last, my dear monsieur, we are almost at the end of all our mysteries, and soon, I hope, you will see that you have no cause to complain of me.  Have you brought the money?”

“Yes,” I replied, “neither lost nor stolen.”  And I drew from my pocket a wallet containing the two hundred and fifty thousand francs in bank notes.

“Very good!” said Jacques Bricheteau.  “Now let us go to the Hotel de la Poste; no doubt you know who awaits you there.”

“No, indeed I do not,” I replied.

“You must have remarked the name and title under which that money was paid to you?”

“Certainly; that strange circumstance struck me forcibly, and has, I must own, stirred my imagination.”

“Well, we shall now completely lift the veil, one corner of which we were careful to raise at first, so that you might not come too abruptly to the great and fortunate event that is now before you.”

“Am I to see my father?”

“Yes,” replied Jacques Bricheteau; “your father is awaiting you; but I must warn you against a probable cloud on his manner of receiving you.  The marquis has suffered much; the court life which he has always led has trained him to show no outward emotions; besides, he has a horror of everything bourgeois.  You must not be surprised, therefore, at the cold and dignified reception he will probably give you; at heart, he is good and kind, and you will appreciate him better when you know him.”

“Here,” thought I, “are very comforting assurances, and as I myself am not very ardently disposed, I foresee that this interview will be at some degrees below zero.”

On going into the room where the Marquis awaited me, I saw a very tall, very thin, very bald man, seated at a table on which he was arranging papers.  On hearing the door open, he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, rested his hands on the arms of his chair, and looking round at us he waited.

“Monsieur le Comte de Sallenauve,” said Jacques Bricheteau, announcing me with the solemnity of an usher of ambassadors or a groom of the Chambers.

But in the presence of the man to whom I owed my life the ice in me was instantly melted; I stepped forward with an eager impulse, feeling the tears rise to my eyes.  He did not move.  There was not the faintest trace of agitation in his face, which had that peculiar look of high dignity that used to be called “the grand air”; he merely held out his hand, limply grasped mine, and then said: 

“Be seated, monsieur—­for I have not yet the right to call you my son.”

When Jacques Bricheteau and I had taken chairs—­

“Then you have no objection,” said this strange kind of father, “to assuming the political position we are trying to secure for you?”

“None at all,” said I.  “The notion startled me at first, but I soon grew accustomed to it; and to ensure success, I have punctually carried out all the instructions that were conveyed to me.”