“I have already told you that he who now enjoys this estate is not its real owner. It is, to all purposes, a disputed territory, where the strongest may plant his flag,—yours to-day; another may advance to the conquest to-morrow. I only say that to fellows like us, who, for aught I see, may have to take the high-road for a livelihood, this chance is not to be despised.”
“Then why not yourself attempt it?”
“For two sufficient reasons. I am a Pole, and my nationality can be proved; and, secondly, I am full ten years too old: this youth was born about the year 1782.”
“The very year of my own birth!” said I.
“By Jove, Gervois! everything would seem to aid us. There is but one deficiency,” added he, after a pause, and a look towards me of such significance that I could not misunderstand it.
“I know what you mean,” said I; “the want lies in me,—in my lack of energy and courage. I might, perhaps, give another name to it,” added I, after waiting in vain for some reply on his part, “and speak of reluctance to become a swindler.”
A long silence now ensued between us. Each seemed to feel that another word might act like a spark in a magazine, and produce a fearful explosion; and so we sat, scarcely daring to look each other in the face. As we remained thus, my eyes fell upon the paper in his hand, and read the following words: “Son of Walter Carew, of Castle Carew, and Josephine de Courtois, his wife,” I snatched the document from his fingers, and read on. “The proof of this marriage wanting, but supposed to have been solemnized at or about the year 1780 or '81. No trace of Mademoiselle de Courtois' family obtainable, save her relationship to Count de Gabriac, who died in England three years ago. The youth Jasper Carew served in the Bureau of the Minister of War at Paris in '95, and was afterwards seen in the provinces, supposed to be employed by the Legitimist party as an agent; traced thence to England, and believed to have gone to America, or the West Indies.” Then followed some vague speculations as to where and how this youth was possibly employed, and some equally delusive guesses as to the signs by which he might be recognized.
“Does that interest you, Gervois?” said Ysaffich. “This is the best part of the narrative, to my thinking; read that, and say if your heart does not bound at the very notion of such a prize.”
The paper which he now handed to me was closely and carefully written, and headed, “Descriptive sketch of the lands and estate of the late Walter Carew, Esq., known as the demesne of Castle Carew, in the county of Wicklow, in Ireland.”
“Two thousand seven hundred acres of a park, and a princely mansion!” exclaimed the Count. “An estate of at least twelve thousand pounds a year! Gervois, my boy, why not attempt it?”