M. Tabaret took Noel’s hand, and pressed it. “Ah!” he said, “I recognise my generous boy.”
“If I have not done this, my friend, it is because I thought to myself, ‘Once these letters destroyed, would he recognise me as his brother?’”
“Ah! very true.”
“In about half an hour, he had finished reading; he arose, and facing me directly, said, ‘You are right, sir. If these letters are really written by my father, as I believe them to be, they distinctly prove that I am not the son of the Countess de Commarin.’ I did not answer. ‘Meanwhile,’ continued he, ‘these are only presumptions. Are you possessed of other proofs?’ I expected, of course, a great many other objections. ‘Germain,’ said I, ‘can speak.’ He told me that Germain had been dead for several years. Then I spoke of the nurse, Widow
