The next morning about eleven o’clock he presented himself at the house of M. d’Escorval.
“Monsieur is in his study with a young man,” replied the servant; “but, as he gave me no orders to the contrary, you may go in.”
Lecoq entered.
The study was unoccupied. But from the adjoining room, separated from the study only by a velvet portiere, came a sound of stifled exclamations, and of sobs mingled with kisses.
Not knowing whether to remain or retire, the young policeman stood for a moment undecided; then he observed an open letter lying upon the carpet.
Impelled to do it by an impulse stronger than his own will, Lecoq picked up the letter. It read as follows:
“The bearer of this letter is Marie-Anne’s son, Maurice—your son. I have given him all the proofs necessary to establish his identity. It was to his education that I consecrated the heritage of my poor Marie-Anne.
“Those to whose care I confided him have made a noble man of him. If I restore him to you, it is only because the life I lead is not a fitting life for him. Yesterday, the miserable woman who murdered my sister died from poison administered by her own hand. Poor Marie-Anne! she would have been far more terribly avenged had not an accident which happened to me, saved the Duc and the Duchesse de Sairmeuse from the snare into which I had drawn them.
“Jean Lacheneur.”
Lecoq stood as if petrified.