Inspector Loup had politely requested Monsieur Marot to furnish privately any information in connection with the recent discoveries at his appartement which might be useful to the government,--especially in the nature of correspondence, etc.

As if Inspector Loup had no agents in the Postes et Telegraphes and had not already generously sampled the contents of Jean's mail, going and coming! But there are some cynical plotters in France who never use the public mails and, understanding the thoroughness of the Secret System, prefer direct communication.

"It is infamous!" said the girl, when she had calmly perused the letter.

"It is d.a.m.nable!" said Jean.

"Still, it is his business to know."

"It is a miserable business,--a dishonorable business! And Monsieur l'Inspecteur will follow his dirty trade without any help from me!"

"Very surely!" said Mlle. Fouchette, emphatically.

"I've had enough of politics."

"Good!" cried she, gleefully.

"But, I'd like to punch the fellow who wrote this," he muttered, tearing an insulting letter into little bits and throwing them on the floor.

She laughed. "But that is politics," she remarked.

"True. We Frenchmen are worse than the Irish. I sometimes doubt if we are really fit for self-government; don't you know?"

"Mon ami, you are improving rapidly," she replied, with a meaning smile,--"why not others?"

"I--I--mille diables!"

"What! Another?"

"Worse!"

He slammed his fist upon the table in sudden pa.s.sion.

"It is very provoking, but----"

"Read it!" he said, dejectedly.

She read beneath a Lyon date-line, in a small, crabbed, round hand,--

"You are not only a scoundrel, but a traitor, and you dishonor the mother who bore you as you betray the country which gives you shelter and protection."

"He's a liar!" cried the girl, with a flash of her former spirit.

"He is my father!" said Jean, scarcely able to repress his tears.

"Ah! mon Dieu!"

She slipped down at his knees and covered his hand with kisses.

"He cannot know!--he cannot know!" she said, consoling him. "He has only read the newspapers, like the rest. If he knew the truth, mon ami!"

"Well!" sighed the young man,--"let us see,--a telegram? I hadn't noticed that. There can be nothing worse than what one's father can write his son."

He read in silence, then pa.s.sed it to her with a shrug of the shoulders.

"Monsieur de Beauchamp!" she exclaimed.

"Yes."

"'Come to Brussels at once.'"

"It is the Duc d'Orleans."

"Bah!"

"He knows, then, that I am in possession."

"Yes,--certainly."

"Probably wants me to take charge of his guns----"

"And dynamite bombs----"

"The wretches!"

"You can tell him you have turned them over to Inspector Loup."

"I will, pardieu!"

He was inspecting the superscription of the next envelope.

"Something familiar about that. Ah! its from Lerouge!"

"Lerouge!"

"Very good, very good! Look!"

Jean jumped up excitedly,--this time with evident pleasure.

"Coming here! and to-night! Good!"

"Oh! I'm so glad, mon ami!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette. "And, see!

'toi!'--he calls you 'thee;' he is not angry!"

The note from Lerouge was simply a line, as if in answer to something of the day.

"Merci,--je serai chez toi ce soir."