"He motioned to me that he must not be interrupted," said Adamas; "I think, monsieur, that he is inducing her to tell the truth by gentleness and persuasion; let us not disturb him. He writes quickly, but she does not read very well, even in her own language, and it is wonderful to see how he makes himself understood with his hands. Be patient, monsieur; we shall soon find out something." They waited a quarter of an hour, which to the marquis seemed a century. Time was flying; the first bell had rung for supper. It would be necessary to sit at the table with Villareal, without having obtained any definite information. The marquis was in a state of intense excitement. He kept rising and sitting down again, muttering to himself unintelligible words which sorely puzzled Adamas. Mario, thinking that he was angry with him, stood apart in a corner, thoughtful and abashed. Fleurial, seeing his master's perplexity, gazed steadfastly at him, followed his every step and whined from time to time, wagging his tail, as if to say: "What is the matter, pray?" At last Adamas ventured to put the question in words. "Monsieur," he cried, "you have something in your mind which you are concealing from your servant, and in that way you make your trouble still more painful to him. Speak, monsieur, speak to old Adamas as you would to your night-cap; he will no more repeat what you say than your night-cap would, and it will relieve you so much." "Adamas," replied Bois-Doré, "I greatly fear that I am mad; for there is something about this child and the story he tells us that excites me more than is natural. You must know that I had my fortune told by a gypsy to-day, and that she used some very obscure words, which may however be fully explained by the interest I feel for this poor little fellow. I was told, among other strange things, that I should be a father within three months, three weeks or three days. Now, as I swear to you, Adamas, that I can look forward to no direct paternity within so short a period, it is evident that I am to become a father by adoption. But another part of that prediction perplexes me even more: my brother's death was referred to as having taken place at exactly the same date that the Moor assigns for the death of this child's father. How can that be explained? The witch spoke in veiled, symbolical words, but she fixed that date clearly, computing the years, months and days that have passed since. And I made the same computation as I was riding home and I found that it carried me back to the very day of our King Henri's death. Come here, Mario; didn't you say that was the day?" "But, monsieur," observed Adamas, "didn't you say yourself yesterday that Monsieur Florimond's last letter was dated at Genoa on the sixteenth of June?" "True, my friend; but one may make a mistake in a date and put one month instead of another; that has happened to everybody."