“In this,” said he in a bitter tone, “Madame Gerdy is no longer the adored Valerie:  ’A friend, cruel as all true friends, has opened my eyes.  I doubted.  You have been watched, and today, unhappily, I can doubt no more.  You, Valerie, you to whom I have given more than my life, you deceive me and have been deceiving me for a long time past.  Unhappy man that I am!  I am no longer certain that I am the father of your child.’”

“But this note is a proof,” cried old Tabaret, “an overwhelming proof.  Of what importance to the count would be a doubt of his paternity, had he not sacrificed his legitimate son to his bastard?  Yes, you have said truly, his punishment has been severe.”

“Madame Gerdy,” resumed Noel, “wished to justify herself.  She wrote to the count; but he returned her letters unopened.  She called on him, but he would not receive her.  At length she grew tired of her useless attempts to see him.  She knew that all was well over when the count’s steward brought her for me a legal settlement of fifteen thousand francs a year.  The son had taken my place, and the mother had ruined me!”

Three or four light knocks at the door of the study interrupted Noel.

“Who is there?” he asked, without stirring.

“Sir,” answered the servant from the other side of the door, “madame wishes to speak to you.”

The advocate appeared to hesitate.

“Go, my son,” advised M. Tabaret; “do not be merciless, only bigots have that right.”

Noel arose with visible reluctance, and passed into Madame Gerdy’s sleeping apartment.

“Poor boy!” thought M. Tabaret when left alone.  “What a fatal discovery! and how he must feel it.  Such a noble young man! such a brave heart!  In his candid honesty he does not even suspect from whence the blow has fallen.  Fortunately I am shrewd enough for two, and it is just when he despairs of justice, I am confident of obtaining it for him.  Thanks to his information, I am now on the track.  A child might now divine whose hand struck the blow.  But how has it happened?  He will tell me without knowing it.  Ah! if I had one of those letters for four and twenty hours.  He has probably counted them.  If I ask for one, I must acknowledge my connection with the police.  I had better take one, no matter which, just to verify the handwriting.”

Old Tabaret had just thrust one of the letters into the depths of his capacious pocket, when the advocate returned.

He was one of those men of strongly formed character, who never lose their self-control.  He was very cunning and had long accustomed himself to dissimulation, that indispensable armour of the ambitious.

As he entered the room nothing in his manner betrayed what had taken place between Madame Gerdy and himself.  He was absolutely as calm as, when seated in his arm-chair, he listened to the interminable stories of his clients.

“Well,” asked old Tabaret, “how is she now?”