even a slight trembling which seized me when I saw her and
bowed to her as she passed so close to me that my hand touched her
dress. I obeyed her in other ways also. I asked my uncle for six
thousand francs, and he gave them to me, laughing; for he was the most
generous man on earth: but he said at the same time,--

"'I thought you had not come to Boiscoran merely for the purpose of
exploring the forest of Rochepommier.'

"This trifling circumstance increased my admiration for the Countess
Claudieuse. How well she had foreseen my uncle's astonishment, when I
had not even dreamed of it!

"'She has a genius for prudence,' I thought.

"Yes, indeed she had a genius for it, and a genius for calculation also,
as I soon found out. When I reached Paris, I found a letter from her
waiting for me; but it was nothing more than a repetition of all she
had told me at our meeting. This letter was followed by several others,
which she begged me to keep for her sake, and which all had a number in
the upper corner.

"The first time I saw her again, I asked her,--

"'What are these numbers?'

"'My dear Jacques,' she replied, 'a woman ought always to know how
many letters she has written to her lover. Up to now, you must have had
nine.'

"This occurred in May, 1867, at Rochefort, where she had gone to be
present at the launching of a frigate, and where I had followed her,
at her suggestion, with a view to spending a few hours in each
other's company. Like a fool, I laughed at the idea of this epistolary
responsibility, and then I thought no more of it. I was at that time too
busy otherwise. She had recalled to me the fact that time was passing,
in spite of the sadness of our separation, and that the month of
September, the month of her freedom, was drawing near. Should we be
compelled again, like the year before, to resort to these perilous trips
to Fontainebleau? Why not get a house in a remote quarter of town?

"Every wish of hers was an order for me. My uncle's liberality knew no
end. I bought a house."

At last in the midst of all of Jacques's perplexities, there appeared a
circumstance which might furnish tangible evidence.

M. Magloire started, and asked eagerly,--

"Ah, you bought a house?"

"Yes, a nice house with a large garden, in Vine Street, Passy."

"And you own it still?"

"Yes."

"Of course you have the title-papers?"

Jacques looked in despair.

"Here, again, fate is against me. There is quite a tal