The marquis took the letter and eagerly read it,—
I feel that I am about to die, but, at least, my father has forgiven me. He had forbidden me to make Blanche's existence known to her father, and, as long as he lived, I respected his orders; but he is no more, and I am about to follow him to the tomb. Villebelle, Blanche is your daughter, the fruit of our love. Good-by. Love her more than you have loved her mother. I forgive you.
Estrelle Delmar.
"O Blanche, O my daughter!" exclaimed the marquis, abandoning himself by turns to his joy and his remorse, "I am your father and I have made you unhappy."
"Finish this letter, seigneur," said Julia, "there is something there which concerns your confidant."
The marquis saw some lines added by Estrelle's hand and read,—
I have no relations; my daughter will be presented to you by a worthy friend in whom I have every confidence, and who goes to Paris under a fictitious name to try to obtain some information about a son who has dishonored him. I have confided to him the fortune which I have left Blanche; my daughter needs nothing but her father's friendship, but if he repulses her, the old Touquet will take his place.
"Touquet," cried the marquis, looking at the barber.
The latter appeared thunderstruck. He looked at the letter, a cold sweat stood out on his forehead; he could not utter a word.
"Yes," said Julia, "yes, unhappy wretch, it was your father who came to your house with Blanche, whom he was taking to the marquis; he had taken the name of Moranval, no doubt, that he might be more likely to get news of his son in Paris. Perhaps he even knew in whose house he was taking lodgings. Answer, wretch, how did you treat that traveller?"