"You seem quite sanguine, Victor," said Sir Reginald. "Mind, I don't ask questions, but you really are sure all is going well?"
"Our affairs march, mon ami. And you are making your game with the old lady at Richmond admirably, are you not?"
"Nothing could be better, and indeed I ought to succeed, for it's dull work, I can tell you, especially when she begins talking resignedly about the child that was stolen a few centuries ago, and her hopes of meeting it in a better world. Horrid bore—dreadful bosh; but anything is worth bearing if money is to be made of it—good, sure, sterling money. I think it will do me good to see some real money—bank-notes and gold, and that sort of thing—for an accommodation bill is the only form of cash I've handled since I came of age. How happy we shall be when it all comes right—your game and mine!" continued the baronet. "My plans are very simple. I shall only exchange my shabby lodgings in the Strand for apartments in Piccadilly, overlooking the Park, of course. I shall resume my old position among my own set, and enjoy life after my own fashion; and when once I am possessor of a handsome fortune, I dare say I shall have no difficulty in getting a rich wife. And you, Victor, how shall you employ our wealth?"
"In the restoration of my name," replied the Frenchman, with suppressed intensity. "Yes, Sir Reginald, the one purpose of my life is told in those words. I have been an outcast and an adventurer, friendless, penniless; but I am the last scion of a noble house, and to restore to that house some small portion of its long-lost splendour has been the one dream of my manhood. I am not given to talk much of that which lies nearest my heart, and never until to-night have I spoken to you of my single ambition; but you, who have watched me toiling upon a weary road, wading through a morass of guilt, must surely have guessed that the pole-star must needs be a bright one which could lure me onward upon so hideous a pathway. The end has come at last, and I now speak freely. My name is not Carrington. I am Viscomte Champfontaine, of Champfontaine, in the department of Charente, and my name was once the grandest in western France; but the Revolution robbed us of lands and wealth, and there remain now but four rugged stone towers of that splendid chateau which once rose proudly above the woods of Champfontaine, like a picture by Gustave Doré. The fountain in the field still flows, limpid as in those days when the soldier-Gaul pitched his tent beside its waters, and took for himself the name of Champfontaine. To restore that name, to rebuild that chateau—that is the dream which I have cherished."
Excited by this unwonted revelation of his feelings, and by the anticipation of the realization of all his hopes, the Frenchman rose, and paced rapidly up and down the room.
"I will go to Champfontaine," he said. "I will look once more upon the crumbling towers, so soon to be restored to their primitive strength and grandeur."
Reginald watched him wonderingly. This enthusiasm about an ancient name was beyond his comprehension. He too, bore a name that had been honourable for centuries, and he had recklessly degraded that name. He had begun life with all the best gifts of fortune in his hands, and had squandered all.
"I hear your cousin Douglas is very ill," said Carrington, checking his excited manner, and speaking with a sudden change of tone, which produced a strange thrill of Sir Reginald's somewhat weak nerves. "I should recommend you to go and call upon him at his chambers. Never mind any coolness there may have been between you. You needn't see him, you know; in fact it will be much better for you to avoid doing so. But just call and make the inquiry. I am really anxious to know if there is anything the matter with him."
Sir Reginald Eversleigh looked at the Frenchman with a half doubtful, half horror-stricken look—such a look as Faust may have cast at Mephistopheles, when Gretchen's soldier-brother fell, stricken by the invisible sword of the demon.
"I'll tell you what it is, Victor," he said, after a pause, "unless our luck changes pretty quickly, I shall throw up the sponge some fine morning, and blow my brains out. Affairs have been desperate with me for a long time, and your fine schemes have not made me a halfpenny richer. I begin to think that, in spite of all your cleverness, you're no better than a bungler."