“Well,” she said with a forced laugh, “will you be kind enough to state what you wish with me?”
“Certainly, madame. Two years ago the vicissitudes of exile took my brother to London. There, at the house of a friend, he met a young man by the name of Raoul. Gaston was so struck by the youth’s appearance and intelligence, that he inquired who he was, and discovered that beyond a doubt this boy was his son, and your son, madame.”
“This is quite a romance you are relating.”
“Yes, madame, a romance the denouement of which is in your hands. Your mother certainly used every precaution to conceal your secret; but the best-laid plans always have some weak point. After your marriage, one of your mother’s London friends came to Tarascon, and spread the report of what had taken place at the English village. This lady also revealed your true name to the nurse who was bringing up the child. Thus everything was discovered by my brother, who had no difficulty in obtaining the most positive proofs of the boy’s parentage.”
Louis closely watched Mme. Fauvel’s face to see the effect of his words.
To his astonishment she betrayed not the slightest agitation or alarm; she was smiling as if entertained by the recital of his romance.
“Well, what next?” she asked carelessly.
“Then, madame, Gaston acknowledged the child. But the Clamerans are poor; my brother died on a pallet in a lodging-house; and I have only an income of twelve hundred francs to live upon. What is to become of Raoul, alone with no relations or friends to assist him? My brother’s last moments were embittered by anxiety for the welfare of his child.”
“Really, monsieur——”
“Allow me to finish,” interrupted Louis. “In that supreme hour Gaston opened his heart to me. He told me to apply to you. ‘Valentine,’ said he, ‘Valentine will remember the past, and will not let our son want for anything; she is wealthy, she is just and generous; I die with my mind at rest.’”