“What seems so, monsieur?” inquired Prosper.

“What has just happened; what I have been tracing.  Parbleu!” he exclaimed, imitating the manner of a showman at a fair, “here is a lovely town, called St. Remy, six thousand inhabitants; charming boulevards on the site of the old fortifications; handsome hotel; numerous fountains; large charcoal market, silk factories, famous hospital, and so on.”

Prosper was on thorns.

“Please be so good, monsieur, as to explain what you——­”

“It also contains,” continued M. Verduret, “a Roman triumphal arch, which is of unparalleled beauty, and a Greek mausoleum; but no Lagors.  St. Remy is the native town of Nostradamus, but not of your friend.”

“Yet I have proofs.”

“Naturally.  But proofs can be fabricated; relatives can be improvised.  Your evidence is open to suspicion.  My proofs are undeniable, perfectly authenticated.  While you were pining in prison, I was preparing my batteries and collecting munition to open fire.  I wrote to St. Remy, and received answers to my questions.”

“Will you let me know what they were?”

“Have patience,” said M. Verduret as he turned over the leaves of his memoranda.  “Ah, here is number one.  Bow respectfully to it, ’tis official.”

He then read: 

“’Lagors.—­Very old family, originally from Maillane, settled at St. Remy about a century ago.’”

“I told you so,” cried Prosper.

“Pray allow me to finish,” said M. Verduret.

“’The last of the Lagors (Jules-Rene-Henri) bearing without warrant the title of count, married in 1829 Mlle. Rosalie-Clarisse Fontanet, of Tarascon; died December 1848, leaving no male heir, but left two daughters.  The registers make no mention of any person in the district bearing the name of Lagors.’

“Now what do you think of this information?” queried the fat man with a triumphant smile.

Prosper looked amazed.

“But why did M. Fauvel treat Raoul as his nephew?”

“Ah, you mean as his wife’s nephew!  Let us examine note number two:  it is not official, but it throws a valuable light upon the twenty thousand livres income of your friend.”

“’Jules-Rene-Henri de Lagors, last of his name, died at St. Remy on the 29th of December, 1848, in a state of great poverty.  He at one time was possessed of a moderate fortune, but invested it in a silk-worm nursery, and lost it all.

“’He had no son, but left two daughters, one of whom is a teacher at Aix, and the other married a retail merchant at Orgon.  His widow, who lives at Montagnette, is supported entirely by one of her relatives, the wife of a rich banker in Paris.  No person of the name of Lagors lives in the district of Arles.’

“That is all,” said M. Verduret; “don’t you think it enough?”

“Really, monsieur, I don’t know whether I am awake or dreaming.”