Catenac had for some time past been striving to decipher the meaning hidden behind the inscrutable countenance of Mascarin, but in vain.

“Let us get on,” said the lawyer impatiently.  “All that you have told me I shall hear later on in the course of the inquiry.”

“If your sagacity requires no further explanation from me,” rejoined Mascarin, “you will, I trust, permit me to continue them for the benefit of our young friend, Paul Violaine.  You will feel compassion when the Alsatian tells you of his sufferings, at the boys’ description of him, and his subsequent prosperity in the Rue d’Arras.  You had better listen to the old man as long as he continues to grumble on, the more so as you will detect in the rancor and bitterness of his remarks all the vexation of a disappointed speculator.  He will confess to you besides that he subsists entirely on the bounty of the lad, whom he had stigmatized as an ungrateful villain.  Of course, the Duke will have to leave behind him some testimonial of his pleasure, and you will hurry off to the Rue d’Arras.  The proprietor of the house will tell you that some four years ago he got rid of his musician, the only one of his class who had dared to establish himself there, and a small present and a few adroit questions will obtain for you the address of one of the young man’s pupils, Madame Grandorge, a widow lady, residing in the Rue St. Louis.  This lady will tell you that she does not know the address of her former master, but that he used to live at 57, Rue de la Harpe.  From the Rue de la Harpe you will be sent to the Rue Jacob, and from thence to the Rue Montmartre, at the corner of the Rue Joquelet.”

Mascarin paused, drew a long breath, and chuckled inwardly, as though at some excellent joke.

“Be comforted, Catenac,” said he.  “You have nearly reached the end of your journey.  The portress at the house in the Rue Montmartre is the most obliging woman in the world.  She will tell you that the musician still retains his rooms in the house, but that he resides there no longer, for he has made a lucky hit, and last month he married the daughter of a wealthy banker living close by.  The young lady, Mademoiselle Rigal, saw him, and fell in love with him.”

A clever man like Catenac should have foreseen what was coming, but he had not, and at this conclusion he uttered a loud exclamation of surprise.

“Yes, just so,” said Mascarin, with an air of bland triumph.  “The Duke de Champdoce will then drag you off to our mutual friend Martin Rigal, and there you will find our young protege, the happy husband of the beautiful Flavia.”

Mascarin drew himself up, and adjusted his glasses firmly on his nose.

“Now, my dear Catenac, show the liberality and amiability of your disposition by congratulating our friend Paul as Gontran, Marquis de Champdoce.”

Hortebise, of course, knew what was coming; he knew the lines of the plot of the play as if he had been a joint author of it, and was as much excited as if he were assisting at a first rehearsal.