“Well, the Grandlieus sent one of the most respectable attorneys in Paris to see your brother-in-law and inquire into the facts. At Angouleme this lawyer, from the statements of your sister and brother-in-law, learned that they not only had hardly lent you any money, but also that their inheritance consisted of land, of some extent no doubt, but that the whole amount of invested capital was not more than about two hundred thousand francs.—Now you cannot wonder that such people as the Grandlieus should reject a fortune of which the source is more than doubtful. This, monsieur, is what a lie has led to——”
Lucien was petrified by this revelation, and the little presence of mind he had preserved deserted him.
“Remember,” said Camusot, “that the police and the law know all they want to know.—And now,” he went on, recollecting Jacques Collin’s assumed paternity, “do you know who this pretended Carlos Herrera is?”
“Yes, monsieur; but I knew it too late.”
“Too late! How? Explain yourself.”
“He is not a priest, not a Spaniard, he is——”
“An escaped convict?” said the judge eagerly.
“Yes,” replied Lucien, “when he told me the fatal secret, I was already under obligations to him; I had fancied I was befriended by a respectable priest.”
“Jacques Collin——” said Monsieur Camusot, beginning a sentence.
“Yes,” said Lucien, “his name is Jacques Collin.”