ays of June, the count
must have arrived in Paris, for the correspondence ceases. He saw Madame
Gerdy, and the final arrangements of the conspiracy were decided on.
Here is a note which removes all uncertainty on that point. On the day
it was written, the count was on service at the Tuileries, and unable
to leave his post. He has written it even in the king's study, on the
king's paper; see the royal arms! The bargain has been concluded, and
the woman who has consented to become the instrument of my father's
projects is in Paris. He informs his mistress of the fact."

"'Dear Valerie,--Germain informs me of the arrival of your son's, our
son's nurse. She will call at your house during the day. She is to be
depended upon; a magnificent recompense ensures her discretion. Do not,
however, mention our plans to her; for she has been given to
understand that you know nothing. I wish to charge myself with the sole
responsibility of the deed; it is more prudent. This woman is a native
of Normandy. She was born on our estate, almost in our house. Her
husband is a brave and honest sailor. Her name is Claudine Lerouge.

"'Be of good courage, my dear love I am exacting from you the greatest
sacrifice that a lover can hope for from a mother. Heaven, you can no
longer doubt it, protects us. Everything depends now upon our skill and
our prudence, so that we are sure to succeed!'"

On one point, at least, M. Tabaret was sufficiently enlightened. The
researches into the past life of widow Lerouge were no longer difficult.
He could not restrain an exclamation of satisfaction, which passed
unnoticed by Noel.

"This note," resumed the advocate, "closes the count's correspondence
with Madame Gerdy."

"What!" exclaimed the old fellow, "you are in possession of nothing
more?"

"I have also ten lines, written many years later, which certainly have
some weight, but after all are only a moral proof."

"What a misfortune!" murmured M. Tabaret. Noel laid on the bureau the
letters he had held in his hand, and, turning towards his old friend, he
looked at him steadily.

"Suppose," said he slowly and emphasising every syllable,--"suppose that
all my information ends here. We will admit, for a moment, that I know
nothing more than you do now. What is your opinion?"

Old Tabaret remained some minutes without answering; he was estimating
the probabilities resulting from M. de Commarin's letters.

"For my own part," said he at length, "I b