a juryman; however I understand it admirably so far."

"I pass over several letters," continued Noel, "and I come to this one
dated Jan. 23, 1829. It is very long, and filled with matters altogether
foreign to the subject which now occupies us. However, it contains
two passages, which attest the slow but steady growth of my father's
project. 'A destiny, more powerful than my will, chains me to this
country; but my soul is with you, my Valerie! Without ceasing, my
thoughts rest upon the adored pledge of our love which moves within you.
Take care, my darling, take care of yourself, now doubly precious. It
is the lover, the father, who implores you. The last part of your letter
wounds my heart. Is it not an insult to me, for you to express anxiety
as to the future of our child! Oh heaven! she loves me, she knows me,
and yet she doubts!'

"I skip," said Noel, "two pages of passionate rhapsody, and stop at
these few lines at the end. 'The countess's condition causes her to
suffer very much! Unfortunate wife! I hate and at the same time pity
her. She seems to divine the reason of my sadness and my coldness. By
her timid submission and unalterable sweetness, one would think she
sought pardon for our unhappy union. Poor sacrificed creature! She also
may have given her heart to another, before being dragged to the altar.
Our fates would then be the same. Your good heart will pardon my pitying
her.'

"That one was my mother," cried the advocate in a trembling voice. "A
saint! And he asks pardon for the pity she inspires! Poor woman."

He passed his hands over his eyes, as if to force back his tears, and
added,--

"She is dead!"

In spite of his impatience, old Tabaret dared not utter a word. Besides
he felt keenly the profound sorrow of his young friend, and respected
it. After a rather long silence, Noel raised his head, and returned to
the correspondence.

"All the letters which follow," said he, "carry traces of the
preoccupation of my father's mind on the subject of his bastard son. I
lay them, however, aside. But this is what strikes me in the one written
from Rome, on March 5, 1829. 'My son, our son, that is my great, my only
anxiety. How to secure for him the future position of which I dream?
The nobles of former times were not worried in this way. In those days
I would have gone to the king, who, with a word, would have assured
the child's position in the world. To-day, the king who governs with
difficulty his di