M. Tabaret was astonished at the strength of this passion, of which Noel was disturbing the ashes.  Perhaps, he felt it all the more keenly on account of those expressions which recalled his own youth.  He understood how irresistible must have been the strength of such a love and he trembled to speculate as to the result.

“Here is,” resumed Noel, holding up a sheet of paper, “not one of those interminable epistles from which I have read you short extracts, but a simple billet.  It is dated from Venice at the beginning of May; it is short but nevertheless decisive; ’Dear Valerie,—­Tell me, as near as possible, the probable date of your confinement.  I await your reply with an anxiety you would imagine, could you but guess my projects with regard to our child.’

“I do not know,” said Noel, “whether Madame Gerdy understood; anyhow she must have answered at once, for this is what my father wrote on the 14th:  ’Your reply, my darling, is what I did not dare expect it to be.  The project I had conceived is now practicable.  I begin to feel more calm and secure.  Our son shall bear my name; I shall not be obliged to separate myself from him.  He shall be reared by my side, in my mansion, under my eyes, on my knees, in my arms.  Shall I have strength enough to bear this excess of happiness?  I have a soul for grief, shall I have one for joy?  Oh! my adored one, oh! my precious child, fear nothing, my heart is vast, enough to love you both!  I set out to-morrow for Naples, from whence I shall write to you at length.  Happen what may, however, though I should have to sacrifice the important interests confided to me, I shall be in Paris for the critical hour.  My presence will double your courage; the strength of my love will diminish your sufferings.’”

“I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Noel,” said old Tabaret, “do you know what important affairs detained your father abroad?”

“My father, my old friend,” replied the advocate, “was, in spite of his youth, one of the friends, one of the confidants, of Charles X.; and he had been entrusted by him with a secret mission to Italy.  My father is Count Rheteau de Commarin.”

“Whew!” exclaimed the old fellow; and the better to engrave the name upon his memory, he repeated several times, between his teeth, “Rheteau de Commarin.”

For a few minutes Noel remained silent.  After having appeared to do everything to control his resentment, he seemed utterly dejected, as though he had formed the determination to attempt nothing to repair the injury he had sustained.

“In the middle of the month of May, then,” he continued, “my father is at Naples.  It is whilst there, that he, a man of prudence and sense, a dignified diplomatist, a nobleman, prompted by an insensate passion, dares to confide to paper this most monstrous of projects.  Listen!

“’My adored one,—­

“’It is Germain, my old valet, who will hand you this letter.  I am sending him to Normandy, charged with a commission of the most delicate nature.  He is one of those servitors who may be trusted implicitly.