His throbbing, yearning heart told him that he still loved his wife.  Why should he punish a fault committed so many years ago, and atoned for by twenty years of devotion and suffering?

For some moments after M. Verduret had finished his explanation, M. Fauvel remained silent.

So many strange events had happened, rapidly following each other in succession, and culminating in the shocking scene which had just taken place, that M. Fauvel seemed to be too bewildered to think clearly.

If his heart counselled pardon and forgetfulness, wounded pride and self-respect demanded vengeance.

If Raoul, the baleful witness, the living proof of a far-off sin, were not in existence, M. Fauvel would not have hesitated.  Gaston de Clameran was dead; he would have held out his arms to his wife, and said: 

“Come to my heart! your sacrifices for my honor shall be your absolution; let the sad past be forgotten.”

But the sight of Raoul froze the words upon his lips.

“So this is your son,” he said to his wife—­“this man, who has plundered you and robbed me!”

Mme. Fauvel was unable to utter a word in reply to these reproachful words.

“Oh!” said M. Verduret, “madame will tell you that this young man is the son of Gaston de Clameran; she has never doubted it.  But the truth is—­”

“What!”

“That, in order to swindle her, he has perpetrated a gross imposture.”

During the last few minutes Raoul had been quietly creeping toward the door, hoping to escape while no one was thinking of him.

But M. Verduret, who anticipated his intentions, was watching him out of the corner of one eye, and stopped him just as he was about leaving the room.

“Not so fast, my pretty youth,” he said, dragging him into the middle of the room; “it is not polite to leave us so unceremoniously.  Let us have a little conversation before parting; a little explanation will be edifying!”

The jeering words and mocking manner of M. Verduret made Raoul turn deadly pale, and start back as if confronted by a phantom.

“The clown!” he gasped.

“The same, friend,” said the fat man.  “Ah, now that you recognize me, I confess that the clown and myself are one and the same.  Yes, I am the mountebank of the Jandidier ball; here is proof of it.”

And turning up his sleeve he showed a deep cut on his arm.

“I think that this recent wound will convince you of my identity,” he continued.  “I imagine you know the villain that gave me this little decoration, that night I was walking along the Rue Bourdaloue.  That being the case, you know, I have a slight claim upon you, and shall expect you to relate to us your little story.”

But Raoul was so terrified that he could not utter a word.

“Your modesty keeps you silent,” said M. Verduret.  “Bravo! modesty becomes talent, and for one of your age you certainly have displayed a talent for knavery.”