raps of
this letter found?" he asked.

"I have them," cried the valet, triumphantly. "I have them in my pocket,
and, what's more, I have the whole of them!"

This declaration made M. Fortunat turn pale with delight.
"Indeed--indeed!" said he; "it must be a strange production."

His companion pursed up his lips disdainfully. "May be so, may be not,"
he retorted. "It's impossible to understand a word of it. The only thing
certain about it is that it was written by a woman."

"Ah!"

"Yes, by a former mistress, undoubtedly. And, naturally, she asks for
money for a child. Women of that class always do so. They've tried the
game with me more than a dozen times, but I'm not so easily caught." And
bursting with vanity, he related three or four love affairs in which,
according to his own account, he must have played a most ignoble part.

If M. Fortunat's chair had been a gridiron, heated by an excellent fire,
he could not have felt more uncomfortable. After pouring out bumper
after bumper for his guest, he perceived that he had gone too far,
and that it would not be easy to check him. "And this letter?" he
interrupted, at last.

"Well?"

"You promised to let me read it."

"That's true--that's quite true; but it would be as well to have some
mocha first, would it not? What if we ordered some mocha, eh?"

Coffee was served, and when the waiter had closed the door, M. Casimir
drew the letter, the scraps of which were fixed together, from his
pocket, and unfolded it, saying: "Attention; I'm going to read."

This did not suit M. Fortunat's fancy. He would infinitely have
preferred perusing it himself; but it is impossible to argue with an
intoxicated man, and so M. Casimir with a more and more indistinct
enunciation read as follows: "'Paris, October 14, 186--.' So the lady
lives in Paris, as usual. After this she puts neither 'monsieur,' nor
'my friend,' nor 'dear count,' nothing at all. She begins abruptly:
'Once before, many years ago, I came to you as a suppliant. You were
pitiless, and did not even deign to answer me. And yet, as I told you, I
was on the verge of a terrible precipice; my brain was reeling, vertigo
had seized hold of me. Deserted, I was wandering about Paris, homeless
and penniless, and my child was starving!'"

M. Casimir paused to laugh. "That's like all the rest of them," he
exclaimed; "that is exactly like all the rest! I've ten such letters in
my drawer, even more imperative in their demands. I