“Yes, that is true,” said old Pigoult, adopting his son’s opinion without hesitation.

“In short,” said Jacques Bricheteau, “you think the matter can go on.”

“You see that my father, a man of great experience, did not hesitate to agree with me.  We say, therefore,” continued the notary, taking up his pen, “Francois-Henri-Pantaleon Dumirail, Marquis de Sallenauve, domiciled with Monsieur Charles de Sallenauve, his natural son, by him legally recognized, in the house known as the Chateau d’Arcis, arrondissement of Arcis-sur-Aube, department of the Aube.”

The rest of the deed was read and executed without comment.

Then followed a rather ridiculous scene.

“Now, Monsieur le comte,” said Jacques Bricheteau, “embrace your father.”

The marquis opened his arms rather indifferently, and I coldly fell into them, vexed with myself for not being deeply moved and for not hearing in my heart the voice of kindred.  Was this barrenness of emotion the result of my sudden accession to wealth?  A moment later a second deed made me possessor, on payment of one hundred and eighty thousand francs in ready money, of the Chateau d’Arcis,—­a grand edifice which had caught my eye, on my first arrival in the town, by its lordly and feudal air.

“You may congratulate yourselves,” said Achille Pigoult, “that you have got that estate for a song.”

“Come, come!” said Jacques Bricheteau, “how long have you had it on your hands to sell?  Your client would have let it go for one hundred and fifty thousand to others, but, as family property, you thought you could get more from us.  We shall have to spend twenty thousand to make the house habitable; the land doesn’t return a rental of more than four thousand; so that our money, all expenses deducted, won’t return us more than two and a half per cent.”

“What are you complaining about?” returned Achille Pigoult.  “You have employment to give and money to pay in the neighborhood, and what can be better for a candidate?”

“Ah! that electoral business,” said Jacques Bricheteau; “we will talk about that to-morrow when we bring you the purchase-money and your fees.”

Thereupon we took leave, and returned to the Hotel de la Poste, where I bade good-night to my father and came to my room to write to you.

Now I must tell you the terrible idea that drove sleep from my brain and put the pen once more in my hand,—­although I am somewhat distracted from it by writing the foregoing two pages, and I do not see quite as much evidence for my notion as I did before I renewed this letter.

One thing is certain:  during the last year many romantic incidents have happened to me.  You may say that adventure seems to be the logical way of life for one in my position; that my birth, the chances that brought you (whose fate is so like mine) and me together, my relations with Marianina and my handsome housekeeper, and perhaps I might say with Madame de l’Estorade, all point to the possession of a fickle star, and that my present affair is only one of its caprices.