Jeannin nodded approvingly, refilled the glasses, and raising his to his lips, said in a tone of triumph—­

“I am listening, commander.”

“Well, if it must be, it must.  First of all, learn that my nephew is not my nephew at all.”

“Go on.”

“That his name is not Moranges.”

“And the next?”

“I am not going to reveal his real name to you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know it myself, and no more does the chevalier.”

“What’ nonsense!”

“No nonsense at all, but the sober truth.  A few months ago the chevalier came to Paris, bringing me a letter of introduction from a German whom I used to know years ago.  This letter requested me to look after the bearer and help him in his investigations.  As you said just now, Love and someone once met somewhere, and that was about all was known as to his origin.  Naturally the young man wants to cut a figure in the world, and would like to discover the author of his existence, that he may have someone at hand to pay the debts he is going to incur.  We have brought together every scrap of information we could collect as to this person, hoping to find therein a clue that we could follow up.  To be quite open with you, and convince you at the same time how extremely prudent and discreet we must be, I must tell you that we think we have found one, and that it leads to no less a dignitary than a Prince of the Church.  But if he should get wind of our researches too soon everything would be at an end, don’t you see?  So keep your tongue between your teeth.”

“Never fear,” said Jeannin.

“Now, that’s what I call speaking out as a friend should.  I wish you luck, my gallant Chevalier de Moranges, and until you unearth your father, if you want a little money, my purse is at your service.  On my word, de Jars, you must have been born with a caul.  There never was your equal for wonderful adventures.  This one promises well-spicy intrigues, scandalous revelations, and you’ll be in the thick of it all.  You’re a lucky fellow!  It’s only a few months since you had the most splendid piece of good fortune sent you straight from heaven.  A fair lady falls in love with you and makes you carry her off from the convent of La Raquette.  But why do you never let anyone catch a glimpse of her?  Are you jealous?  Or is it that she is no such beauty, after all, but old and wrinkled, like that knave of a Mazarin?”

“I know what I’m about,” answered de Jars, smiling; “I have my very good reasons.  The elopement caused a great deal of indignation, and it’s not easy to get fanatics to listen to common sense.  No, I am not in the least jealous; she is madly in love with me.  Ask my nephew.”

“Does he know her?”

“We have no secrets from each other; the confidence between us is without a flaw.  The fair one, believe me, is good to look on, and is worth all the ogling, fan-flirting baggages put together that one sees at court or on the balconies of the Palais Roy:  ah!  I’ll answer for that.  Isn’t she, Moranges?”