He took the book with an anxious gesture. The description corresponded with that given by the author of the pamphlet. Outside was a parchment cover, dirty, stained and worn in places, and under it, the real binding, in stiff leather. With what a thrill Beautrelet felt for the hidden pocket! Was it a fairy tale? Or would he find the document written by Louis XVI. and bequeathed by the queen to her fervent admirer?
At the first page, on the upper side of the book, there was no receptacle.
“Nothing,” he muttered.
“Nothing,” they echoed, palpitating with excitement.
But, at the last page, forcing back the book a little, he at once saw that the parchment was not stuck to the binding. He slipped his fingers in between—there was something—yes, he felt something—a paper—
“Oh!” he gasped, in an accent almost of pain. “Here—is it possible?”
“Quick, quick!” they cried. “What are you waiting for?”
He drew out a sheet folded in two.
“Well, read it!—There are words in red ink—Look!—it might be blood—pale, faded blood—Read it!—”
He read: