“The Public Prosecutor has consented to my forwarding the documents for your perusal; the Baron Hulot d’Ervy, being resident in Paris, the proceedings will lie with your Supreme Court.  We have hit on this rather shabby way of ridding ourselves of the difficulty for the moment.

“Only, my dear Marshal, decide quickly.  This miserable business is too much talked about already, and it will do as much harm to us as to you all if the name of the principal culprit—­known at present only to the Public Prosecutor, the examining judge, and myself—­should happen to leak out.”

At this point the letter fell from Marshal Hulot’s hands; he looked at his brother; he saw that there was no need to examine the evidence.  But he looked for Johann Fischer’s letter, and after reading it at a glance, held it out to Hector:—­

“FROM THE PRISON AT ORAN.

  “DEAR NEPHEW,—­When you read this letter, I shall have ceased to
  live.

“Be quite easy, no proof can be found to incriminate you.  When I am dead and your Jesuit of a Chardin fled, the trial must collapse.  The face of our Adeline, made so happy by you, makes death easy to me.  Now you need not send the two hundred thousand francs.  Good-bye.

  “This letter will be delivered by a prisoner for a short term whom
  I can trust, I believe.

“JOHANN FISCHER.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Marshal Hulot to the Prince de Wissembourg with pathetic pride.

“Come, come, say tu, not the formal vous,” replied the Minister, clasping his old friend’s hand.  “The poor lancer killed no one but himself,” he added, with a thunderous look at Hulot d’Ervy.

“How much have you had?” said the Comte de Forzheim to his brother.

“Two hundred thousand francs.”

“My dear friend,” said the Count, addressing the Minister, “you shall have the two hundred thousand francs within forty-eight hours.  It shall never be said that a man bearing the name of Hulot has wronged the public treasury of a single sou.”

“What nonsense!” said the Prince.  “I know where the money is, and I can get it back.—­Send in your resignation and ask for your pension!” he went on, sending a double sheet of foolscap flying across to where the Councillor of State had sat down by the table, for his legs gave way under him.  “To bring you to trial would disgrace us all.  I have already obtained from the superior Board their sanction to this line of action.  Since you can accept life with dishonor—­in my opinion the last degradation—­you will get the pension you have earned.  Only take care to be forgotten.”

The Minister rang.

“Is Marneffe, the head-clerk, out there?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“Show him in!”

“You,” said the Minister as Marneffe came in, “you and your wife have wittingly and intentionally ruined the Baron d’Ervy whom you see.”