André obeyed, and as he did so, he detected something strange in the expression of his companion’s face.
“What!” remarked Lecoq, “do you see by my face that I have something to tell you? You are getting quite a keen observer. Well, I have, indeed, for I have passed the night going through Mascarin’s papers, and I have just gone through a painful scene—I may say, one of the most painful that I have ever witnessed. The intellect of Mascarin,” said he, “has given way under the tremendous pressure put upon it. The ruling passion of the villain’s life was his love for his daughter. He imagines that Flavia and Paul are without a franc and in want of bread; he thinks that he continually hears his daughter crying to him for help. Then, on his knees, he entreats the warder to let him out, if only for a day, swearing that he will return as soon as he has succored his child. Then, when his prayer is refused, he bursts into a frenzied rage and tears at his door, howling like an infuriated animal; and this state may last to the end of his life, and every minute in it be a space of intolerable torture. Doctor Hortebise is dead; but the poison upon which he relied betrayed him, and he suffered agonies for twenty-four hours. Catenac will fight to the bitter end, but the proofs are against him, and he will be convicted of infanticide. In Rigal’s papers I have found evidence against Perpignan, Verminet and Van Klopen, who will all certainly hear something about penal servitude. Nothing has been settled yet about Toto Chupin, for it must be remembered that he came and gave himself up.”
“And what about Croisenois?”
“His Company will be treated like any other attempt to extort money by swindling, and the Marquis will be sent to prison for two months, and the money paid for shares returned to the dupes, and that, I think, is all that I have to tell you, except that by tomorrow M. Gandelu will receive back the bills to which his son affixed a forged signature. And now,” continued Lecoq, after a short pause, “the time has come for me to tell you why, at our first interview, I saluted you as the heir of the Duke de Champdoce. I had guessed your history, but it was only last night I heard all the details.”
Then the detective gave a brief but concise account of the manuscript that Paul had read aloud. He did not tell much, however, but passed lightly over the acts of the Duke de Champdoce and Madame de Mussidan, for he did not wish André to cease to respect either his father or the mother of Sabine. The story was just concluded as the carriage drew up at the corner of the Rue de Matignon.
“Get down here,” said Lecoq, “and mind and don’t hurt your arm.”
André obeyed mechanically.
“And now,” went on Lecoq, “listen to me. The Count and Countess de Mussidan expect you to breakfast and here is the note they handed to me for you. Come back to your studio by four o’clock, and I will then introduce you to your father; but till then, remember, absolute silence.”
André was completely bewildered with his unexpected happiness. He walked instinctively to the Hotel de Mussidan and rang the bell. The intense civility of the footmen removed any misgivings that he might have left, and, as he entered the dining-room, he darted back, for face to face with him was the portrait of Sabine which he had himself painted. At that moment the Count came forward to meet him with extended hands.
“Diana,” said he to his wife, “this is our daughter’s future husband.” He then took Sabine’s hand, which he laid in André’s.
The young artist hardly dared raise his eyes to Sabine’s face; when he did so, his heart grew very sad, for the poor girl was but a shadow of her former self.
“You have suffered terribly,” said he tenderly.
“Yes,” answered she, “and I should have died had it lasted much longer.”
André had the greatest difficulty in refraining from telling his secret to his beloved, and it was with even more difficulty that he tore himself away at half-past three.
He had not been five minutes in his studio when there was a knock at the door, and Lecoq entered, followed by an elderly gentleman of aristocratic and haughty appearance. It was the Duke of Champdoce.
“This gentleman,” said the Duke, with a gesture of his hand towards Lecoq, “will have told you that certain circumstances rendered it expedient, according to my ideas, that I should not acknowledge you as my heir, but my son. The fault that I then committed has been cruelly expiated. I am not forty-eight; look at me.”
The Duke looked at least sixty.
“My sins,” continued the Duke, “still pursue me. Today, in spite of all my desires, I cannot claim you as my legitimate son, for the law only permits me to give you my name and fortune by exercising the right of adoption.”
André made no reply, and the Duke went on with evident hesitation—
“You can certainly institute proceedings against me for the recovery of your rights, but—”
“Ah!” interrupted the young man, “really, what sort of person do you think I am? Do you believe me capable of dishonoring your name before I assumed it?”
The Duke drew a deep breath of relief. André’s manner had checked and restrained him, for it was frigid and glacial to a degree. What a difference there was between the haughty mien of André and the gushing effusiveness of Paul!
“Will you permit me,” asked André, “to address a few words to you?”
“A few words?”
“Yes. I do not like to use the word ‘conditions,’ but I think that you will understand what I mean. My daily toil for bread gave me neither the means nor the leisure which I
