My fate, perhaps, was settled, and was in the letter, while I knew it not.  I tried to get it out of my inside pocket several times, for to me it was a far more interesting document than any that concerned Zampini’s action.  I pined to open it furtively, and read at least the first few lines.  A moment would have sufficed for me to get at the point of this long communication.  But at every attempt the judge’s eyes turned slowly upon me between their half-closed lids, and made me desist.  No—­a thousand times no!  This smooth-tongued, wily Italian shall have no excuse for proving that the French, who have already such a reputation for frivolity, are a nation without a conscience, incapable of fulfilling the mission with which they are charged.

And yet.... there came a moment when he turned his back and began to sort a fresh bundle with the man of records.  Here was an unlooked-for opportunity.  I cut open the envelope, unfolded the letter, and found eight pages!  Still I began: 

   “My dear friend: 

“In spite of my anxiety about my mother, and the care her illness demands (to-day it is found to be undoubted congestion of the lungs), I feel bound to tell you the story of what has happened in the Rue Hautefeuille, as it is very important—­”

“Excuse me, Monsieur Mou-il-ard,” said the little judge, half turning toward me, “does the paper you have there happen to be number twenty-seven, which we are looking for?”

“Oh, dear, no; it’s a private letter.”

“A private letter?  I ask pardon for interrupting you.”

He gave a faint smile, closed his eyes to show his pity for such frivolity, and turned away again satisfied, while the other members of the Zampini Commission looked at me with interest.

The letter was important.  So much the worse, I must finish it: 

   “I will try to reconstruct the scene for you, from the details which
   I have gathered.

“The time is a quarter to ten in the morning.  There is a knock at Monsieur Plumet’s door.  The door opposite is opened half-way and Madame Plumet looks out.  She withdraws in a hurry, ’with her heart in her mouth,’ as she says; the plot she has formed is about to succeed or fail, the critical moment is at hand; the visitor is her enemy, your rival Dufilleul.

   “He is full of self-confidence and comes in plump and flourishing,
   with light gloves, and a terrier at his heels.

   “‘My portrait framed, Plumet?’

   “‘Yes, my lord-yes, to be sure.’

   “‘Let’s see it.’

“I have seen the famous portrait:  a miniature of the newly created baron, in fresh butter, I think, done cheap by some poor girl who gains her living by coloring photographs.  It is intended for Mademoiselle Tigra of the Bouffes.  A delicate attention from Dufilleul, isn’t it?  While Jeanne in her innocence is dreaming of the words of love he has ventured to utter to her, and cherishes but one thought, one image in her heart, he is exerting his ingenuity to perpetuate the recollection of that image’s adventures elsewhere.

   “He is pleased with the elaborate and costly frame which Plumet has
   made for him.