"So," said a cook, "that tall dark fellow with the whiskers is the
count's true son!"
"You are right," said one of the footmen who had accompanied M. de
Commarin; "as for the other, he is no more his son than Jean here; who,
by the way, will be kicked out of doors, if he is caught in this part of
the house with his dirty working-shoes on."
"What a romance," exclaimed Jean, supremely indifferent to the danger
which threatened him.
"Such things constantly occur in great families," said the cook.
"How ever did it happen?"
"Well, you see, one day, long ago, when the countess who is now dead was
out walking with her little son, who was about six months old, the child
was stolen by gypsies. The poor lady was full of grief; but above all,
was greatly afraid of her husband, who was not over kind. What did she
do? She purchased a brat from a woman, who happened to be passing;
and, never having noticed his child, the count has never known the
difference."
"But the assassination!"
"That's very simple. When the woman saw her brat in such a nice berth,
she bled him finely, and has kept up a system of blackmailing all along.
The viscount had nothing left for himself.
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