“Hey! parbleu!  I have it!” he cried.  “Monsieur is the Marquise de Sallenauve, whom we used to call the ‘Grimacer,’ and who would now be the owner of the Chateau d’Arcis if, instead of wandering off, like the other fools, into emigration, he had stayed at home and married his pretty cousin.”

“You are still sans-culotte, it seems,” said the marquis, laughing.

“Messieurs,” said the notary, gravely, “the proof I had arranged for myself is conclusive.  This proof, together with the title-deeds and documents Monsieur le marquis has shown to me, and which he deposits in my hands, together with the certificate of identity sent to me by Mother Marie-des-Anges, who cannot, under the rules of her Order, come to my office, are sufficient for the execution of the deeds which I have here—­already prepared.  The presence of two witnesses is required for one of them.  Monsieur Bricheteau will, of course, be the witness on your side and on the other my father, if agreeable to you; it is an honor that, as I think, belongs to him of right, for, as one may say, this matter has revived his memory.”

“Very good, messieurs, let us proceed,” said Jacques Bricheteau, heartily.

The notary sat down at his desk; the rest of us sat in a circle around him, and the reading of the first document began.  Its purport was to establish, authentically, the recognition made by Francois-Henri-Pantaleon Dumirail, Marquis de Sallenauve, of me, his son.  But in the course of the reading a difficulty came up.  Notarial deeds must, under pain of being null and void, state the domicile of all contracting parties.  Now, where was my father’s domicile?  This part had been left in blank by the notary, who now insisted on filling it before proceeding farther.

“As for this domicile,” said Achille Pigoult, “Monsieur le marquis appears to have none in France, as he does not reside in this country, and has owned no property here for a long time.”

“It is true,” said the marquis, seeming to put more meaning into his words than they naturally carried, “I am a mere vagabond in France.”

“Ah!” said Jacques Bricheteau, “vagabonds like you, who can present their sons with the necessary sums to buy estates, are not to be pitied.  Still, the remark is a just one, not only as to France, but as to your residence in foreign countries.  With your eternal mania for roving, it is really very difficult to assign you a domicile.”

“Well,” said Achille Pigoult, “it does not seem worth while to let so small a matter stop us.  Monsieur,” he continued, motioning to me, “is now the owner of the Chateau d’Arcis, for an engagement to sell is as good as the sale itself.  What more natural, therefore, than that the father’s domicile should be stated as being on his son’s estate, especially as this is really the family property now returned into the hands of the family, being purchased by the father for the son, particularly as that father is known and recognized by some of the oldest and most important inhabitants of the place?”