M. Fauvel listened without understanding a word of what was said.

“Into what dark depths of shame have we fallen!” he groaned.

“Reassure yourself, monsieur,” replied M. Verduret with great respect.  “After what I have been constrained to tell you, what remains to be said is a mere trifle.  I will finish the story.

“On leaving Mihonne, who had given him a full account of the misfortunes of Mlle. Valentine de la Verberie, Clameran hastened to London.

“He had no difficulty in finding the farmer’s wife to whom the old countess had intrusted Gaston’s son.

“But here an unexpected disappointment greeted him.

“He learned that the child, whose name was registered on the parish books as Raoul-Valentin Wilson, had died of the croup when eighteen months old.”

“Did anyone state such a fact as that?” interrupted Raoul:  “it is false.”

“It was not only stated, but proved, my pretty youth,” replied M. Verduret.  “You don’t suppose I am a man to trust to verbal testimony; do you?”

He drew from his pocket several officially stamped documents, with red seals attached, and laid them on the table.

“These are declarations of the nurse, her husband, and four witnesses.  Here is an extract from the register of births; this is a certificate of registry of his death; and all these are authenticated at the French Embassy.  Now are you satisfied, young man?”

“What next?” inquired M. Fauvel.

“The next step was this,” replied M. Verduret.  “Clameran, finding that the child was dead, supposed that he could, in spite of this disappointment, obtain money from Mme. Fauvel; he was mistaken.  His first attempt failed.  Having an inventive turn of mind, he determined that the child should come to life.  Among his large circle of rascally acquaintances, he selected a young fellow to impersonate Raoul-Valentin Wilson; and the chosen one stands before you.”

Mme. Fauvel was in a pitiable state.  And yet she began to feel a ray of hope; her acute anxiety had so long tortured her, that the truth was a relief; she would thank Heaven if this wicked man was proved to be no son of hers.

“Can this be possible?” she murmured, “can it be?”

“Impossible!” cried the banker:  “an infamous plot like this could not be executed in our midst!”

“All this is false!” said Raoul boldly.  “It is a lie!”

M. Verduret turned to Raoul, and, bowing with ironical respect, said: 

“Monsieur desires proofs, does he?  Monsieur shall certainly have convincing ones.  I have just left a friend of mine, M. Palot, who brought me valuable information from London.  Now, my young gentleman, I will tell you the little story he told me, and then you can give your opinion of it.

“In 1847 Lord Murray, a wealthy and generous nobleman, had a jockey named Spencer, of whom he was very fond.  At the Epsom races, this jockey was thrown from his horse, and killed.  Lord Murray grieved over the loss of his favorite, and, having no children of his own, declared his intention of adopting Spencer’s son, who was then but four years old.