“My dear boy,” said he, “do not let us digress.  You ask me for advice; and I am perhaps the best adviser you could have chosen.  Come, then, to the point.  How have you learned this?  Have you any proofs? where are they?”

The decided tone in which the old fellow spoke, should no doubt, have awakened Noel’s attention; but he did not notice it.  He had not leisure to reflect.  He therefore answered,—­

“I have known the truth for three weeks past.  I made the discovery by chance.  I have important moral proofs; but they are mere presumptive evidence.  A word from Widow Lerouge, one single word, would have rendered them decisive.  This word she cannot now pronounce, since they have killed her; but she had said it to me.  Now, Madame Gerdy will deny all.  I know her; with her head on the block, she will deny it.  My father doubtless will turn against me.  I am certain, and I possess proofs; now this crime makes my certitude but a vain boast, and renders my proofs null and void!”

“Explain it all to me,” said old Tabaret after a pause—­“all, you understand.  We old ones are sometimes able to give good advice.  We will decide what’s to be done afterwards.”

“Three weeks ago,” commenced Noel, “searching for some old documents, I opened Madame Gerdy’s secretary.  Accidentally I displaced one of the small shelves:  some papers tumbled out, and a packet of letters fell in front of my eyes.  A mechanical impulse, which I cannot explain, prompted me to untie the string, and, impelled by an invincible curiosity, I read the first letter which came to my hand.”

“You did wrong,” remarked M. Tabaret.

“Be it so; anyhow I read.  At the end of ten lines, I was convinced that these letters were from my father, whose name, Madame Gerdy, in spite of my prayers, had always hidden from me.  You can understand my emotion.  I carried off the packet, shut myself up in this room, and devoured the correspondence from beginning to end.”

“And you have been cruelly punished my poor boy!”

“It is true; but who in my position could have resisted?  These letters have given me great pain; but they afford the proof of what I just now told you.”

“You have at least preserved these letters?”

“I have them here, M. Tabaret,” replied Noel, “and, that you may understand the case in which I have requested your advice, I am going to read them to you.”

The advocate opened one of the drawers of his bureau, pressed an invisible spring, and from a hidden receptacle constructed in the thick upper shelf, he drew out a bundle of letters.  “You understand, my friend,” he resumed, “that I will spare you all insignificant details, which, however, add their own weight to the rest.  I am only going to deal with the more important facts, treating directly of the affair.”

Old Tabaret nestled in his arm-chair, burning with curiosity; his face and his eyes expressing the most anxious attention.  After a selection, which he was some time in making, the advocate opened a letter, and commenced reading in a voice which trembled at times, in spite of his efforts to render it calm.