"Then the medallion belongs to her," put in Victoire; "M.T. are the initials on it."
But these letters revealed nothing, nor did three others signed "Your mother," couched in terms of endearment and advice. The style was most certainly that of an aristocrat. Only one letter—dated 1791—gave a slight indication, a very vague one.
Robespierre pricked up his ears—
"And the contents of that letter?" he asked.
Lebas scanned it once more. It was dated 1791, from a country place in one of the suburbs of Paris, and addressed to the young man, then a student, by his grandfather, who seemed also to be his godfather, for he says: "I shall expect you to-morrow evening, for my fête and yours, the Feast of St. Olivier."
"Is Olivier, then, his name?" inquired Robespierre, looking at the young man.
But Lebas continued reading. "The valet, my dear child, will not fetch you this time. At fifteen a lad ought to be able to travel alone."
"The letter being dated May, 1791, the young man must be now nineteen," Lebas observed.
"Nineteen! yes, just nineteen!" repeated Robespierre, as if a thought had struck him. "Go on! Go on? What comes next?"
Lebas continued: "My travelling-coach will wait for you in the Rue des Lions, before the door of the hotel."