and because
she has got a plan of her own. She took me aside, during my visit in her
room, and, after having made me swear secrecy on a crucifix, she told
me that she couldn't bear the idea of separating herself from her babe
forever, and of bringing up another's child. She added that, if I would
agree not to change the children, and not to tell the count, she would
give me ten thousand francs down, and guarantee me an annuity equal to
the one the count had promised me. She declared, also, that she could
easily find out whether I kept my word, as she had made a mark of
recognition on her little one. She didn't show me the mark; and I have
examined him carefully, but can't find it. Do you understand now? I
merely take care of this little fellow here. I tell the count that I
have changed the children; we receive from both sides, and Jacques will
be rich. Now kiss your little wife who has more sense than you, you old
dear!' That, sir, is word for word what Claudine said to me."

The rough sailor drew from his pocket a large blue-checked handkerchief,
and blew his nose so violently that the windows shook. It was his way of
weeping.

M. Daburon was confounded. Since the beginning of this sad affair, he
had encountered surprise after surprise. Scarcely had he got his ideas
in order on one point, when all his attention was directed to another.

He felt himself utterly routed. What was he about to learn now? He
longed to interrogate quickly, but he saw that Lerouge told his story
with difficulty, laboriously disentangling his recollections; he was
guided by a single thread which the least interruption might seriously
entangle.

"What Claudine proposed to me," continued the sailor, "was villainous;
and I am an honest man. But she kneaded me to her will as easily as a
baker kneads dough. She turned my heart topsy-turvy: she made me see
white as snow that which was really as black as ink. How I loved her!
She proved to me that we were wronging no one, that we were making
little Jacques's fortune, and I was silenced. At evening we arrived at
some village; and the coachman, stopping the carriage before an inn,
told us we were to sleep there. We entered, and who do you think we saw?
That scamp, Germain, with a nurse carrying a child dressed so exactly
like the one we had that I was startled. They had journeyed there, like
ourselves, in one of the count's carriages. A suspicion crossed my mind.
How could I be sure that Claudine ha