“You need have no fear,” said M. Vacherot. “My friend has only one thought, that of saving the woman, not killing her. . . .”
“He lured her and me into the lodge to kill us, as our parents were killed before us.”
“He is trying only to unite you.”
“Yes, in death.”
“No, in life. You are his dearly-loved son. He always spoke of you with pride.”
“He is a ruffian, a monster!” shouted the officer.
“He is the very best man living, sir, and he is your father.”
Patrice started, stung by the insult:
“Proofs,” he roared, “proofs! I forbid you to speak another word until you have proved the truth in a manner admitting of no doubt.”
Without moving from his seat, the old man put out his arm towards an old mahogany escritoire, lowered the lid and, pressing a spring, pulled out one of the drawers. Then he held out a bundle of papers: