“’I thought you had not come to Boiscoran merely for the purpose of exploring the forest of Rochepommier.’

“This trifling circumstance increased my admiration for the Countess Claudieuse.  How well she had foreseen my uncle’s astonishment, when I had not even dreamed of it!

“‘She has a genius for prudence,’ I thought.

“Yes, indeed she had a genius for it, and a genius for calculation also, as I soon found out.  When I reached Paris, I found a letter from her waiting for me; but it was nothing more than a repetition of all she had told me at our meeting.  This letter was followed by several others, which she begged me to keep for her sake, and which all had a number in the upper corner.

“The first time I saw her again, I asked her,—­

“‘What are these numbers?’

“‘My dear Jacques,’ she replied, ’a woman ought always to know how many letters she has written to her lover.  Up to now, you must have had nine.’

“This occurred in May, 1867, at Rochefort, where she had gone to be present at the launching of a frigate, and where I had followed her, at her suggestion, with a view to spending a few hours in each other’s company.  Like a fool, I laughed at the idea of this epistolary responsibility, and then I thought no more of it.  I was at that time too busy otherwise.  She had recalled to me the fact that time was passing, in spite of the sadness of our separation, and that the month of September, the month of her freedom, was drawing near.  Should we be compelled again, like the year before, to resort to these perilous trips to Fontainebleau?  Why not get a house in a remote quarter of town?

“Every wish of hers was an order for me.  My uncle’s liberality knew no end.  I bought a house.”

At last in the midst of all of Jacques’s perplexities, there appeared a circumstance 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, Passy.”

“And you own it still?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you have the title-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”—­