Old Tabaret remained some minutes without answering; he was estimating the probabilities resulting from M. de Commarin’s letters.

“For my own part,” said he at length, “I believe on my conscience that you are not Madame Gerdy’s son.”

“And you are right!” answered the advocate forcibly.  “You will easily believe, will you not, that I went and saw Claudine.  She loved me, this poor woman who had given me her milk, she suffered from the knowledge of the injustice that had been done me.  Must I say it, her complicity in the matter weighed upon her conscience; it was a remorse too great for her old age.  I saw her, I interrogated her, and she told me all.  The count’s scheme, simply and yet ingeniously conceived, succeeded without any effort.  Three days after my birth, the crime was committed, and I, poor, helpless infant, was betrayed, despoiled and disinherited by my natural protector, by my own father!  Poor Claudine!  She promised me her testimony for the day on which I should reclaim my rights!”

“And she is gone, carrying her secret with her!” murmured the old fellow in a tone of regret.

“Perhaps!” replied Noel, “for I have yet one hope.  Claudine had in her possession several letters which had been written to her a long time ago, some by the count, some by Madame Gerdy, letters both imprudent and explicit.  They will be found, no doubt, and their evidence will be decisive.  I have held these letters in my hands, I have read them; Claudine particularly wished me to keep them, why did I not do so?”

No! there was no hope on that side, and old Tabaret knew so better than any one.  It was these very letters, no doubt, that the assassin of La Jonchere wanted.  He had found them and had burnt them with the other papers, in the little stove.  The old amateur detective was beginning to understand.

“All the same,” said he, “from what I know of your affairs, which I think I know as well as my own, it appears to me that the count has not overwell kept the dazzling promises of fortune he made Madame Gerdy on your behalf.”

“He never even kept them in the least degree, my old friend.”

“That now,” cried the old fellow indignantly, “is even more infamous than all the rest.”

“Do not accuse my father,” answered Noel gravely; “his connection with Madame Gerdy lasted a long time.  I remember a haughty-looking man who used sometimes to come and see me at school, and who could be no other than the count.  But the rupture came.”

“Naturally,” sneered M. Tabaret, “a great nobleman—­”

“Wait before judging,” interrupted the advocate.  “M. de Commarin had his reasons.  His mistress was false to him, he learnt it, and cast her off with just indignation.  The ten lines which I mentioned to you were written then.”

Noel searched a considerable time among the papers scattered upon the table, and at length selected a letter more faded and creased than the others.  Judging from the number of folds in the paper one could guess that it had been read and re-read many times.  The writing even was here and there partly obliterated.