“You are an illegitimate child?”
The first question had surprised Paul; the second absolutely astounded him.
“Quite true, sir,” replied he, not attempting to hide his surprise; “but I had no idea that M. Tantaine was so well informed; the partition which divided our rooms must have been thinner than I thought.”
Mascarin took no notice of this remark, but continued to shuffle and examine his pieces of cardboard. Had Paul caught a clear glimpse of these, he would have seen his initials in the corner of each.
“Your mother,” went on Mascarin, “kept, for the last fifteen years of her life, a little haberdasher’s shop.”
“Just so.”
“But a business of that description in a town like Poitiers, does not bring in very remunerative results, and luckily she received for your support and education a sum of one thousand francs per year.”
This time Paul started from his seat, for he was sure that Tantaine could not have learned this secret at the Hotel de Perou.
“Merciful powers, sir!” cried he; “who could have told you a thing that has never passed my lips since my arrival in Paris, and of which even Rose is entirely ignorant?”
Mascarin raised his shoulders.