At the first word respecting this missive, M. Fortunat started violently. “Nonsense!” said he, with an incredulous air. “Why the devil should this letter have had such an influence?”
“I don’t know. But it is certain—it had.” And, in support of his assertion, he told M. Fortunat how the count had destroyed the letter almost without reading it, and how he had afterward searched for the fragments, in order to find an address it had contained. “And I’m quite sure,” said the valet, “that the count intended to apply to you for the address of the person who wrote the letter.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“As sure as I am of drinking Pomard!” exclaimed M. Casimir, draining his glass.
Rarely had the agent experienced such emotion. He did not doubt but what this missive contained the solution of the mystery. “Were the scraps of this letter found?” he asked.
“I have them,” cried the valet, triumphantly. “I have them in my pocket, and, what’s more, I have the whole of them!”
This declaration made M. Fortunat turn pale with delight. “Indeed—indeed!” said he; “it must be a strange production.”
His companion pursed up his lips disdainfully. “May be so, may be not,” he retorted. “It’s impossible to understand a word of it. The only thing certain about it is that it was written by a woman.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, by a former mistress, undoubtedly. And, naturally, she asks for money for a child. Women of that class always do so. They’ve tried the game with me more than a dozen times, but I’m not so easily caught.” And bursting with vanity, he related three or four love affairs in which, according to his own account, he must have played a most ignoble part.