Mlle. Gilberte interrupted him.
“When you came in, general, I was only just beginning to explain the facts to my mother and brother.”
The old soldier made a gesture, and a face which showed plainly that he did not much relish the prospect of a somewhat difficult explanation—broum! Nevertheless, making up his mind bravely,
“It is very simple,” he said: “I come in behalf of M. de Tregars.”
Maxence fairly bounced upon his chair. That was the very name which he had just heard mentioned by the commissary of police.
“Tregars!” he repeated in a tone of immense surprise.
“Yes,” said M. de Villegre. “Do you know him, by chance?”
“No, sir, no!”
“Marius de Tregars is the son of the most honest man I ever knew, of the best friend I ever had,—of the Marquis de Tregars, in a word, who died of grief a few years ago, after—hum!—some quite inexplicable—broum!—reverses of fortune. Marius could not be dearer to me, if he were my own son. He has lost his parents: I have no relatives; and I have transferred to him all the feelings of affection which still remained at the bottom of my old heart.
“And I can say that never was a man more worthy of affection. I know him. To the most legitimate pride and the most scrupulous integrity, he unites a keen and supple mind, and wit enough to get the better of the toughest rascal. He has no fortune for the reason that—hum!—he gave up all he had to certain pretended creditors of his father. But whenever he wishes to be rich, he shall be; and —broum!—he may be so before long. I know his projects, his hopes, his resources.”