At last in the midst of all of Jacques's perplexities, there appeared a circ.u.mstance which might furnish tangible evidence.

M. Magloire started, and asked eagerly,--

"Ah, you bought a house?"

"Yes, a nice house with a large garden, in Vine Street, Pa.s.sy."

"And you own it still?"

"Yes."

"Of course you have the t.i.tle-papers?"

Jacques looked in despair.

"Here, again, fate is against me. There is quite a tale connected with that house."

The features of the Sauveterre lawyer grew dark again, much quicker than they had brightened up just now.

"Ah!" he said,--"a tale, ah!"

"I was scarcely of age," resumed Jacques, "when I wanted to purchase this house. I dreaded difficulties. I was afraid my father might hear of it; in fine, I wanted to be as prudent as the countess was. I asked, therefore, one of my English friends, Sir Francis Burnett, to purchase it in his name. He agreed; and he handed me, with the necessary bills of sale, also a paper in which he acknowledged my right as proprietor."

"But then"--

"Oh! wait a moment. I did not take these papers to my rooms in my father's house. I put them into a drawer of a bureau in my house at Pa.s.sy. When the war broke out, I forgot them. I had left Paris before the siege began, you know, being in command of a company of volunteers from this department. During the two sieges, my house was successively occupied by the National Guards, the soldiers of the Commune, and the regular troops. When I got back there, I found the four walls pierced with holes by the sh.e.l.ls; but all the furniture had disappeared, and with it the papers."

"And Sir Francis Burnett?"

"He left France at the beginning of the invasion; and I do not know what has become of him. Two friends of his in England, to whom I wrote, replied,--the one that he was probably in Australia; the other that he was dead."

"And you have taken no other steps to secure your rights to a piece of property which legally belongs to you?"

"No, not till now."

"You mean to say virtually that there is in Paris a house which has no owner, is forgotten by everybody, and unknown even to the tax-gatherer?"

"I beg your pardon! The taxes have always been regularly paid; and the whole neighborhood knows that I am the owner. But the individuality is not the same. I have unceremoniously a.s.sumed the ident.i.ty of my friend.

In the eyes of the neighbors, the small dealers near by, the workmen and contractors whom I have employed, for the servants and the gardener, I am Sir Francis Burnett. Ask them about Jacques de Boiscoran, and they will tell you, 'Don't know.' Ask them about Sir Francis Burnett, and they will answer, 'Oh, very well!' and they will give you my portrait."

M. Magloire shook his head as if he were not fully convinced.

"Then," he asked again, "you declare that the Countess Claudieuse has been at this house?"

"More than fifty times in three years."

"If that is so, she must be known there."

"No."

"But"--

"Paris is not like Sauveterre, my dear friend; and people are not solely occupied with their neighbors' doings. Vine Street is quite a deserted street; and the countess took the greatest precautions in coming and going."

"Well, granted, as far as the outside world is concerned. But within?

You must have had somebody to stay in the house and keep it in order when you were away, and to wait upon you when you were there?"

"I had an English maid-servant."

"Well, this girl must know the countess?"

"She has never caught a glimpse of her even."

"Oh!"

"When the countess was coming down, or when she was going away, or when we wanted to walk in the garden, I sent the girl on some errand. I have sent her as far as Orleans to get rid of her for twenty-four hours. The rest of the time we staid up stairs, and waited upon ourselves."

Evidently M. Magloire was suffering. He said,--

"You must be under a mistake. Servants are curious, and to hide from them is only to make them mad with curiosity. That girl has watched you.

That girl has found means to see the countess when she came there. She must be examined. Is she still in your service?"

"No, she left me when the war broke out."

"Why?"

"She wanted to return to England."

"Then we cannot hope to find her again?"

"I believe not."

"We must give it up, then. But your man-servant? Old Anthony was in your confidence. Did you never tell him any thing about it?"

"Never. Only once I sent for him to come to Vine Street when I had sprained my foot in coming down stairs."

"So that it is impossible for you to prove that the Countess Claudieuse ever came to your house in Pa.s.sy? You have no evidence of it, and no eye-witness?"

"I used to have evidence. She had brought a number of small articles for her private use; but they have disappeared during the war."

"Ah, yes!" said M. Magloire, "always the war! It has to answer for every thing."

Never had any of M. Galpin's examinations been half as painful to Jacques de Boiscoran as this series of quick questions, which betrayed such distressing incredulity.

"Did I not tell you, Magloire," he resumed, "that the countess had a genius for prudence? You can easily conceal yourself when you can spend money without counting it. Would you blame me for not having any proofs to furnish? Is it not the duty of every man of honor to do all he can to keep even a shadow of suspicion from her who has confided herself to his hands? I have done my duty, and whatever may come of it, I shall not regret it. Could I foresee such unheard-of emergencies? Could I foresee that a day might come when I, Jacques de Boiscoran, should have to denounce the Countess Claudieuse, and should be compelled to look for evidence and witnesses against her?"

The eminent advocate of Sauveterre looked aside; and, instead of replying, he said in a somewhat changed voice,--

"Go on, Jacques, go on!"