"And I'm quite sure," said the valet, "that the count
intended to apply to you for the address of the person who wrote
the letter."
"Are you sure of that?"
"As sure as I am of drinking Pomard!" exclaimed M. Casimir,
draining his glass.
Rarely had the agent experienced such emotion. He did not doubt
but what this missive contained the solution of the mystery.
"Were the scraps of this letter found?" he asked.
"I have them," cried the valet, triumphantly. "I have them in my
pocket, and, what's more, I have the whole of them!"
This declaration made M. Fortunat turn pale with delight.
"Indeed--indeed!" said he; "it must be a strange production."
His companion pursed up his lips disdainfully. "May be so, may be
not," he retorted. "It's impossible to understand a word of it.
The only thing certain about it is that it was written by a
woman."
"Ah!"
"Yes, by a former mistress, undoubtedly. And, naturally, she asks
for money for a child. Women of that class always do so. They've
tried the game with me more than a dozen times, but I'm not so
easily caught." And bursting with vanity, he related three or four
love affairs in which, according to his own account, he must have
played a most ignoble part.
If M. Fortunat's chair had been a gridiron, heated by an excellent
fire, he could not have felt more uncomfortable. After pouring
out bumper after bumper for his guest, he perceived that he had
gone too far, and that it would not be easy to check him.
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