“It was an abridgment of his penance,” remarked old Tabaret.

“He was seated,” continued Noel, “before a little table, too fragile even to lean upon.  I was standing with my back to the fireplace in which a fire was burning.  I followed his slightest movements; and I scanned his features closely.  Never in my life have I seen so sad a spectacle, nor shall I forget it, if I live for a thousand years.  In less than five minutes his face changed to such an extent that his own valet would not have recognized him.  He held his handkerchief in his hand, with which from time to time he mechanically wiped his lips.  He grew paler and paler, and his lips became as white as his handkerchief.  Large drops of sweat stood upon his forehead, and his eyes became dull and clouded, as if a film had covered them; but not an exclamation, not a sigh, not a groan, not even a gesture, escaped him.  At one moment, I felt such pity for him that I was almost on the point of snatching the letters from his hands, throwing them into the fire and taking him in my arms, crying, ’No, you are my brother!  Forget all; let us remain as we are and love one another!’”

M. Tabaret took Noel’s hand, and pressed it.  “Ah!” he said, “I recognise my generous boy.”

“If I have not done this, my friend, it is because I thought to myself, ‘Once these letters destroyed, would he recognise me as his brother?’”

“Ah! very true.”

“In about half an hour, he had finished reading; he arose, and facing me directly, said, ’You are right, sir.  If these letters are really written by my father, as I believe them to be, they distinctly prove that I am not the son of the Countess de Commarin.’  I did not answer.  ‘Meanwhile,’ continued he, ’these are only presumptions.  Are you possessed of other proofs?’ I expected, of course, a great many other objections.  ‘Germain,’ said I, ‘can speak.’  He told me that Germain had been dead for several years.  Then I spoke of the nurse, Widow Lerouge—­I explained how easily she could be found and questioned, adding that she lived at La Jonchere.”

“And what said he, Noel, to this?” asked old Tabaret anxiously.

“He remained silent at first, and appeared to reflect.  All on a sudden he struck his forehead, and said, ’I remember; I know her.  I have accompanied my father to her house three times, and in my presence he gave her a considerable sum of money.’  I remarked to him that this was yet another proof.  He made no answer, but walked up and down the room.  At length he turned towards me, saying, ’Sir, you know M. de Commarin’s legitimate son?’ I answered:  ‘I am he.’  He bowed his head and murmured ‘I thought so.’  He then took my hand and added, ’Brother, I bear you no ill will for this.’”

“It seems to me,” remarked old Tabaret, “that he might have left that to you to say, and with more reason and justice.”

“No, my friend, for he is more ill-used than I. I have not been lowered, for I did not know, whilst he! . . . .”