Then Mihonne described the anger of the countess, the journey to London, and the abandonment of little Raoul.
With the accurate memory natural to people unable to read and write, she related the most minute particulars—the names of the village, the nurse, the child’s Christian name, and the exact date of everything which had occurred.
Then she told of Valentine’s wretched suffering, of the impending ruin of the countess, and finally how everything was happily settled by the poor girl’s marriage with an immensely rich man, who was now one of the richest bankers in Paris, and was named Fauvel.
A harsh voice calling, “Mihonne! Mihonne!” here interrupted the old woman.
“Heavens!” she cried in a frightened tone, “that is my husband, looking for me.”
And, as fast as her trembling limbs could carry her, she hurried to the farm-house.
For several minutes after her departure, Louis stood rooted to the spot.
Her recital had filled his wicked mind with an idea so infamous, so detestable, that even his vile nature shrank for a moment from its enormity.
He knew Fauvel by reputation, and was calculating the advantages he might gain by the strange information of which he was now possessed by means of the old Mihonne. It was a secret, which, if skilfully managed, would bring him in a handsome income.
The few faint scruples he felt were silenced by the thought of an old age spent in poverty. After the price of the chateau was spent, to what could he look forward? Beggary.