An acute observer could easily have seen that the doctor was a man of resource, and a thoroughly competent adviser, for the reason that his coolness never deserted him.  Compelled to choose between the use of the contents of his locket, or the continuance of a life of luxurious ease, the smile vanished from the doctor’s face, and he began to reflect profoundly.  Leaning back in his chair, with his feet resting on the fender, he carefully studied every combination in the undertaking, as a general inspects the position taken up by the enemy, when a battle is impending, upon which the fate of an empire may hinge.  That this analysis took a favorable turn, was evident, for Mascarin soon saw a smile appear upon the doctor’s lips.  “We must make the attack at once,” said he; “but make no mistake; the projects you propose are most dangerous, and a single error upon our side would entail destruction; but we must take some risk.  The odds are against us, but still we may win.  Under these circumstances, and as necessity cheers us on, I say, Forward!” As he said this, he rose to his feet, and extending his hand toward his friend, exclaimed, “I am entirely at your disposal.”

Mascarin seemed relieved by the doctor’s decision, for he was in that frame of mind when, however self-reliant a man may be, he has a disinclination to be left alone, and the aid of a stout ally is of the utmost service.

“Have you considered every point carefully?” asked he.  “You know that we can only act at present upon one of the undertakings, and that is the one of which the Marquis de Croisenois——­”

“I know that.”

“With reference to the affair of the Duke de Champdoce, I have still to gather together certain things necessary for the ultimate success of the scheme.  There is a mystery in the lives of the Duke and Duchess,—­of this there is no doubt,—­but what is this secret?  I would lay my life that I have hit upon the correct solution; but I want no suspicions, no probabilities; I want absolute certainties.  And now,” continued he, “this brings us back to the first question.  What do you think of Paul Violaine?”

Hortebise walked up and down the room two or three times, and finally stopped opposite to his friend.  “I think,” said he, “that the lad has many of the qualities we want, and we might find it hard to discover one better suited for our purpose.  Besides, he is a bastard, knows nothing of his father, and therefore leaves a wide field for conjecture; for every natural son has the right to consider himself, if he likes, the offspring of a monarch.  He has no family or any one to look after him, which assures us that whatever may happen, there is no one to call us to account.  He is not overwise, but has a certain amount of talent, and any quantity of ridiculous self-conceit.  He is wonderfully handsome, which will make matters easier, but—­”

“Ah, there is a ‘but’ then?”

“More than one,” answered the doctor, “for there are three for certain.  First, there is Rose Pigoreau, whose beauty has so captivated our old friend Tantaine,—­she certainly appears to be a danger in the future.”