“First give me your word of honor that you really are a lawyer,” said Cachan to Derville.

“Here is my passport,” replied Derville, handing him a paper folded in four; “and monsieur is not, as you might suppose, an inspector from the Treasury, so be easy,” he added.  “We had an important reason for wanting to know the truth as to the Sechard estate, and we now know it.”

Derville took Madame Sechard’s hand and led her very courteously to the further end of the room.

“Madame,” said he, in a low voice, “if it were not that the honor and future prospects of the house of Grandlieu are implicated in this affair, I would never have lent myself to the stratagem devised by this gentleman of the red ribbon.  But you must forgive him; it was necessary to detect the falsehood by means of which your brother has stolen a march on the beliefs of that ancient family.  Beware now of allowing it to be supposed that you have given your brother twelve hundred thousand francs to repurchase the Rubempre estates——­”

“Twelve hundred thousand francs!” cried Madame Sechard, turning pale.  “Where did he get them, wretched boy?”

“Ah! that is the question,” replied Derville.  “I fear that the source of his wealth is far from pure.”

The tears rose to Eve’s eyes, as her neighbors could see.

“We have, perhaps, done you a great service by saving you from abetting a falsehood of which the results may be positively dangerous,” the lawyer went on.

Derville left Madame Sechard sitting pale and dejected with tears on her cheeks, and bowed to the company.

“To Mansle!” said Corentin to the little boy who drove the chaise.

There was but one vacant place in the diligence from Bordeaux to Paris; Derville begged Corentin to allow him to take it, urging a press of business; but in his soul he was distrustful of his traveling companion, whose diplomatic dexterity and coolness struck him as being the result of practice.  Corentin remained three days longer at Mansle, unable to get away; he was obliged to secure a place in the Paris coach by writing to Bordeaux, and did not get back till nine days after leaving home.

Peyrade, meanwhile, had called every morning, either at Passy or in Paris, to inquire whether Corentin had returned.  On the eighth day he left at each house a note, written in their peculiar cipher, to explain to his friend what death hung over him, and to tell him of Lydie’s abduction and the horrible end to which his enemies had devoted them.  Peyrade, bereft of Corentin, but seconded by Contenson, still kept up his disguise as a nabob.  Even though his invisible foes had discovered him, he very wisely reflected that he might glean some light on the matter by remaining on the field of the contest.