“Never mind:  what was he doing here?”

“He used to rise late; he walked about a good deal; he sometimes went out hunting; he sketched; he read, for master is a great reader, and is as fond of his books as the marquis, his father, is of his porcelains.”

“Who came here to see him?”

“M.  Galpin most frequently, Dr. Seignebos, the priest from Brechy, M. Seneschal, M. Daubigeon.”

“How did he spend his evenings?”

“At M. de Chandore’s, who can tell you all about it.”

“He had no other relatives in this country?”

“No.”

“You do not know that he had any lady friend?”

Anthony looked as if he would have blushed.

“Oh, sir!” he said, “you do not know, I presume, that master is engaged to Miss Dionysia?”

The Baron de Chandore was not a baby, as he liked to call it.  Deeply interested as he was, he got up, and said,—­

“I want to take a little fresh air.”

And he went out, understanding very well that his being Dionysia’s grandfather might keep Anthony from telling the truth.

“That is a sensible man,” thought M. Folgat.

Then he added aloud,—­

“Now we are alone, my dear Anthony, you can speak frankly.  Did M. de Boiscoran keep a mistress?”

“No, sir.”

“Did he ever have one?”

“Never.  They will tell you, perhaps, that once upon a time he was rather pleased with a great, big red-haired woman, the daughter of a miller in the neighborhood, and that the gypsy of a woman came more frequently to the chateau than was needful,—­now on one pretext, and now on another.  But that was mere childishness.  Besides, that was five years ago, and the woman has been married these three years to a basket-maker at Marennes.”

“You are quite sure of what you say?”

“As sure as I am of myself.  And you would be as sure of it yourself, if you knew the country as I know it, and the abominable tongues the people have.  There is no concealing any thing from them.  I defy a man to talk three times to a woman without their finding it out, and making a story of it.  I say nothing of Paris”—­

M. Folgat listened attentively.  He asked,—­

“Ah! was there any thing of the kind in Paris?”

Anthony hesitated; at last he said,—­

“You see, master’s secrets are not my secrets, and, after the oath I have sworn,”—­

“It may be, however, that his safety depends upon your frankness in telling me all,” said the lawyer.  “You may be sure he will not blame you for having spoken.”

For several seconds the old servant remained undecided; then he said,—­

“Master, they say, has had a great love-affair.”

“When?”

“I do not know when.  That was before I entered his service.  All I know is, that, for the purpose of meeting the person, master had bought at Passy, at the end of Vine Street, a beautiful house, in the centre of a large garden, which he had furnished magnificently.”