“How do you know that?”

“I wished to see the count my father, to speak with him.”

“You?”

“Yes, I. Do you think that I shall not reclaim my own?  Do you imagine that I shall not raise my voice.  On what account should I keep silent, who have I to consider?  I have rights, and I will make them good.  What do you find surprising in that?”

“Nothing, certainly, my friend.  So then you called at M. de Commarin’s house?”

“Oh!  I did not decide on doing so all at once,” continued Noel.  “At first my discovery almost drove me mad.  Then I required time to reflect.  A thousand opposing sentiments agitated me.  At one moment, my fury blinded me; the next, my courage deserted me.  I would, and I would not.  I was undecided, uncertain, wild.  The scandal that must arise from the publicity of such an affair terrified me.  I desired, I still desire to recover my name, that much is certain.  But on the eve of recovering it, I wish to preserve it from stain.  I was seeking a means of arranging everything, without noise, without scandal.”

“At length, however, you made up your mind?”

“Yes, after a struggle of fifteen days, fifteen days of torture, of anguish!  Ah! what I suffered in that time!  I neglected my business, being totally unfit for work.  During the day, I tried by incessant action to fatigue my body, that at night I might find forgetfulness in sleep.  Vain hope! since I found these letters, I have not slept an hour.”

From time to time, old Tabaret slyly consulted his watch.  “M.  Daburon will be in bed,” thought he.

“At last one morning,” continued Noel, “after a night of rage, I determined to end all uncertainty.  I was in that desperate state of mind, in which the gambler, after successive losses, stakes upon a card his last remaining coin.  I plucked up courage, sent for a cab, and was driven to the de Commarin mansion.”

The old amateur detective here allowed a sigh of satisfaction to escape him.

“It is one of the most magnificent houses, in the Faubourg St. Germain, my friend, a princely dwelling, worthy a great noble twenty times millionaire; almost a palace in fact.  One enters at first a vast courtyard, to the right and left of which are the stables, containing twenty most valuable horses, and the coach-houses.  At the end rises the grand facade of the main building, majestic and severe, with its immense windows, and its double flight of marble steps.  Behind the house is a magnificent garden, I should say a park, shaded by the oldest trees which perhaps exist in all Paris.”

This enthusiastic description was not at all what M. Tabaret wanted.  But what could he do, how could he press Noel for the result of his visit!  An indiscreet word might awaken the advocate’s suspicions, and reveal to him that he was speaking not to a friend, but to a detective.

“Were you then shown over the house and grounds?” asked the old fellow.