her, but you had left the country."

Louis could not believe this strange revelation.

"Are you not mixing up dreams with real events, my good woman?" he said
banteringly.

"No," she replied, mournfully shaking her head. "If Pere Menoul were
alive, he would tell you how he took charge of your brother until he
embarked for Marseilles. But that is nothing compared to the rest. M.
Gaston has a son."

"My brother had a son! You certainly have lost your mind, my poor
woman."

"Alas, no. Unfortunately for my happiness in this world and in the
world to come, I am only telling the truth; he had a child, and Mlle.
Valentine was its mother. I took the poor babe, and carried it to a
woman whom I paid to take charge of it."

Then Mihonne described the anger of the countess, the journey to London,
and the abandonment of little Raoul.

With the accurate memory natural to people unable to read and write,
she related the most minute particulars--the names of the village, the
nurse, the child's Christian name, and the exact date of everything
which had occurred.

Then she told of Valentine's wretched suffering, of the impending ruin
of the countess, and finally how everything was happily settled by the
poor girl's marriage with an immensely rich man, who was now one of the
richest bankers in Paris, and was named Fauvel.

A harsh voice calling, "Mihonne! Mihonne!" here interrupted the old
woman.

"Heavens!" she cried in a frightened tone, "that is my husband, looking
for me."

And, as fast as her trembling limbs could carry her, she hurried to the
farm-house.

For several minutes after her departure, Louis stood rooted to the spot.

Her recital had filled his wicked mind with an idea so infamous, so
detestable, that even his vile nature shrank for a moment from its
enormity.

He knew Fauvel by reputation, and was calculating the advantages he
might gain by the strange information of which he was now possessed by
means of the old Mihonne. It was a secret, which, if skilfully managed,
would bring him in a handsome income.

The few faint scruples he felt were silenced by the thought of an old
age spent in poverty. After the price of the chateau was spent, to what
could he look forward? Beggary.

"But first of all," he thought, "I must ascertain the truth of the old
woman's story; then I will decide upon a plan."

This was why, the next day, after receiving the five thousand two
hundred and eighty francs from Fougerou