“True,” interrupted Noel, with a certain degree of violence,—­“true, the count is guilty, very guilty.  He is the author of the infamous conspiracy, and yet I feel no hatred against him.  He has committed a crime, but he has an excuse, his passion.  Moreover, my father has not deceived me, like this miserable woman, every hour of my life, during thirty years.  Besides, M. de Commarin has been so cruelly punished, that, at this present moment, I can only pardon and pity him.”

“Ah! so he has been punished?” interrogated the old fellow.

“Yes, fearfully, as you will admit.  But allow me to continue.  Towards the end of May, or, rather, during the first days of June, the count must have arrived in Paris, for the correspondence ceases.  He saw Madame Gerdy, and the final arrangements of the conspiracy were decided on.  Here is a note which removes all uncertainty on that point.  On the day it was written, the count was on service at the Tuileries, and unable to leave his post.  He has written it even in the king’s study, on the king’s paper; see the royal arms!  The bargain has been concluded, and the woman who has consented to become the instrument of my father’s projects is in Paris.  He informs his mistress of the fact.”

“’Dear Valerie,—­Germain informs me of the arrival of your son’s, our son’s nurse.  She will call at your house during the day.  She is to be depended upon; a magnificent recompense ensures her discretion.  Do not, however, mention our plans to her; for she has been given to understand that you know nothing.  I wish to charge myself with the sole responsibility of the deed; it is more prudent.  This woman is a native of Normandy.  She was born on our estate, almost in our house.  Her husband is a brave and honest sailor.  Her name is Claudine Lerouge.

“’Be of good courage, my dear love I am exacting from you the greatest sacrifice that a lover can hope for from a mother.  Heaven, you can no longer doubt it, protects us.  Everything depends now upon our skill and our prudence, so that we are sure to succeed!’”

On one point, at least, M. Tabaret was sufficiently enlightened.  The researches into the past life of widow Lerouge were no longer difficult.  He could not restrain an exclamation of satisfaction, which passed unnoticed by Noel.

“This note,” resumed the advocate, “closes the count’s correspondence with Madame Gerdy.”

“What!” exclaimed the old fellow, “you are in possession of nothing more?”

“I have also ten lines, written many years later, which certainly have some weight, but after all are only a moral proof.”

“What a misfortune!” murmured M. Tabaret.  Noel laid on the bureau the letters he had held in his hand, and, turning towards his old friend, he looked at him steadily.

“Suppose,” said he slowly and emphasising every syllable,—­“suppose that all my information ends here.  We will admit, for a moment, that I know nothing more than you do now.  What is your opinion?”