“Joseph, what the deuce can that old witch want with me?” he said musingly.

“Who can tell?  She used to be in the service of a lady who was very intimate with M. Gaston; so my father used to say.  If I were in your place I would go and see what she wanted, monsieur.  You can dine with me, and, after dinner, Pilorel will row you over.”

Curiosity decided Louis to go, about seven o’clock, to the walnut wood, where he found Mihonne impatiently awaiting him.

“Ah, here you are, at last, M. the marquis,” she said, in a tone of relief.  “I was afraid you would disappoint me.”

“Yes, here I am, my good woman, to listen to what you have to say.”

“I have many things to say.  But first tell me some news of your brother.”

Louis regretted having come, supposing from this request that the old woman was childish, and might bother him for hours with her senseless gabble.

“You know well enough that my poor brother was drowned in the Rhone.”

“Good heavens!” cried Mihonne, “are you ignorant, then, of his escape?  Yes, he did what has never been done before; he swam across the swollen Rhone.  The next day Mlle. Valentine went to Clameran to tell the news; but St. Jean prevented her from seeing you.  Afterward I carried a letter from her, but you had left the country.”

Louis could not believe this strange revelation.

“Are you not mixing up dreams with real events, my good woman?” he said banteringly.

“No,” she replied, mournfully shaking her head.  “If Pere Menoul were alive, he would tell you how he took charge of your brother until he embarked for Marseilles.  But that is nothing compared to the rest.  M. Gaston has a son.”

“My brother had a son!  You certainly have lost your mind, my poor woman.”

“Alas, no.  Unfortunately for my happiness in this world and in the world to come, I am only telling the truth; he had a child, and Mlle. Valentine was its mother.  I took the poor babe, and carried it to a woman whom I paid to take charge of it.”

Then Mihonne described the anger of the countess, the journey to London, and the abandonment of little Raoul.

With the accurate memory natural to people unable to read and write, she related the most minute particulars—­the names of the village, the nurse, the child’s Christian name, and the exact date of everything which had occurred.

Then she told of Valentine’s wretched suffering, of the impending ruin of the countess, and finally how everything was happily settled by the poor girl’s marriage with an immensely rich man, who was now one of the richest bankers in Paris, and was named Fauvel.

A harsh voice calling, “Mihonne!  Mihonne!” here interrupted the old woman.

“Heavens!” she cried in a frightened tone, “that is my husband, looking for me.”

And, as fast as her trembling limbs could carry her, she hurried to the farm-house.