"The saints forbid!" said Mere Bourdon fervently, under her breath. Such a change of affairs would turn herself and old Mathieu out into the cold. She thought of their draughty little hut and shivered. Three out of the four who slept at Chateau Ardron that night were clearly of opinion that M. Fabien Saint-Martin would do well to remain a mystery. Early in the morning M. Deshoulieres was in the village again, but he added nothing to his meagre stock of information. He came back through the rain--for the weather had changed in the night--vexed and troubled, and inclined to blame the notary for not suggesting a better plan of operations. The country people going off to market, bumping along in carts, or under enormous umbrellas walking sociably with their pigs or their calves, all bade him good day; there was a sort of impression already abroad that here was the real master of the chateau. Old Mathieu and his wife scraped and bowed and wished "_bon voyage_" a dozen times when the two went away to the railway station. M. Deshoulieres in his annoyance was disposed to consign the chateau, the village, and its inhabitants, including the cure, to the bottom of the sea. When they were in the train he took from a bag a bundle of the papers they had brought with them, and buried himself in them. "It is inconceivable," he said at last. The notary, who had apparently been sleeping, opened his eyes with a wondering "_comment_?" "It is inconceivable that in all those papers there should be nothing relating to this nephew of a later date than the letters we discovered." Roulleau shrugged his shoulders. "What will you?" he replied. "The man was, without doubt, an eccentric. They had quarrelled, and he showed his displeasure by obliterating whatever related to the time and cause of their quarrel." "His displeasure? Hum," said the doctor, "it looks more like wounded affection. I wish, with all my heart, his eccentricities had not vented themselves upon me. Well, there is no more to be said. `Patience, and shuffle the cards.' We must wait. But, pray, where is Mademoiselle Veuillot to wait?" "You have to provide her with a home?" "Precisely. And where?" "Would it be possible for Mademoiselle to remain where she is?" suggested the notary, doubtfully. "At your house? My excellent Monsieur Roulleau, is such an arrangement practicable?" "There are drawbacks, certainly. But I would do any thing to assist you in such an emergency." "Let me hear the drawbacks." "There is my wife. She is admirable--she is devoted--a paragon!" exclaimed the little notary, enthusiastically, "nevertheless, monsieur, she is a woman, and women are but human." "Is that peculiarity confined to them?" asked M. Deshoulieres, dryly. "Go on, M. Ignace, I fully comprehend that you must consult your wife."