tering
just after the reader's expulsion.

The Princess told her of Jude's insolent assertion.

"It is a serious matter. As likely as not it is true," Madame said, and
looked severely at Cyrene.

"I know it to be a falsehood," the latter retorted, with fiery
quickness. "Those people are his enemies. I have it on the word of an
honest man and a Canadian."

CHAPTER XXIV

A CURIOUS PROFESSION

It so happened that about midnight Germain crossed the Seine by the
Petit-Pont, a bridge not so public as the Pont-Neuf, and, regardless of
the robberies always occurring, plunged among the crooked streets of the
Latin Quarter. He had not walked far before a carriage, driving swiftly
away from a small lane or passage, attracted his notice. At the bottom
of the passage was a door having a lamp over it; upon the lamp some
letters and a device. He stopped and read--

"MTRE. GILLES,
GENEALOGIST."

The street in which he stood was a small cross street. He walked on and
left it, but the lamp, the inscription and the carriage haunted him like
one of those things which so often takes part in our reasoning before we
see its drift. All at once it became clear, he clutched at the hope,
retraced his steps to the small street, arrived at the passage, and went
up it to the door. The genealogist himself, a little red-faced man with
an agreeable air, a brown periwig, and a smart suit of black Lyons'
silk, was taking in his sign and preparing to put out the light in it.

"An instant, Monsieur Gilles," said Lecour, stopping him.

"With pleasure, sir," Gilles answered without surprise, and returning
the lamp, opened the door, showing a narrow stair.

Germain mounted and passed into a chamber, whose furniture was of
considerable elegance, and the gloom of which was relieved by a single
wax candle on a brass-footed table.

On the table were a mass of parchments which the genealogist had been
examining and tall cupboards, open drawers, and bookcases full of his
library stood around. A host of old portraits of all kinds and sizes
gave rich colour to the walls.

The stately manner of Germain caught his glance at once, and bowing
deferentially he inquired the name.

"It does not matter," said Germain.

"A Normandy squire," thought the genealogist, from something in the
accent. He invited his visitor to seat himself in the chair facing his
table, and took his own seat at the opposite side.

"I am newly arrived at Court,"