“I pass over several letters,” continued Noel, “and I come to this one dated Jan. 23, 1829.  It is very long, and filled with matters altogether foreign to the subject which now occupies us.  However, it contains two passages, which attest the slow but steady growth of my father’s project.  ’A destiny, more powerful than my will, chains me to this country; but my soul is with you, my Valerie!  Without ceasing, my thoughts rest upon the adored pledge of our love which moves within you.  Take care, my darling, take care of yourself, now doubly precious.  It is the lover, the father, who implores you.  The last part of your letter wounds my heart.  Is it not an insult to me, for you to express anxiety as to the future of our child!  Oh heaven! she loves me, she knows me, and yet she doubts!’

“I skip,” said Noel, “two pages of passionate rhapsody, and stop at these few lines at the end.  ’The countess’s condition causes her to suffer very much!  Unfortunate wife!  I hate and at the same time pity her.  She seems to divine the reason of my sadness and my coldness.  By her timid submission and unalterable sweetness, one would think she sought pardon for our unhappy union.  Poor sacrificed creature!  She also may have given her heart to another, before being dragged to the altar.  Our fates would then be the same.  Your good heart will pardon my pitying her.’

“That one was my mother,” cried the advocate in a trembling voice.  “A saint!  And he asks pardon for the pity she inspires!  Poor woman.”

He passed his hands over his eyes, as if to force back his tears, and added,—­

“She is dead!”

In spite of his impatience, old Tabaret dared not utter a word.  Besides he felt keenly the profound sorrow of his young friend, and respected it.  After a rather long silence, Noel raised his head, and returned to the correspondence.

“All the letters which follow,” said he, “carry traces of the preoccupation of my father’s mind on the subject of his bastard son.  I lay them, however, aside.  But this is what strikes me in the one written from Rome, on March 5, 1829.  ’My son, our son, that is my great, my only anxiety.  How to secure for him the future position of which I dream?  The nobles of former times were not worried in this way.  In those days I would have gone to the king, who, with a word, would have assured the child’s position in the world.  To-day, the king who governs with difficulty his disaffected subjects can do nothing.  The nobility has lost its rights, and the highest in the land are treated the same as the meanest peasants!’ Lower down I find,—­’My heart loves to picture to itself the likeness of our son.  He will have the spirit, the mind, the beauty, the grace, all the fascinations of his mother.  He will inherit from his father, pride, valour, and the sentiments of a noble race.  And the other, what will he be like?  I tremble to think of it.  Hatred can only engender a monster.  Heaven reserves strength and beauty for the children of love!’ The monster, that is I!” said the advocate, with intense rage.  “Whilst the other—­But let us ignore these preliminaries to an outrageous action.  I only desired up to the present to show you the aberration of my father’s reason under the influence of his passion.  We shall soon come to the point.”