Towards the end of May, Baron Hulot’s pension was completely freed by the successive payments that Victorin had made to Baron Nucingen. Everyone knows that the six-monthly pension payments are only made on presentation of a certificate showing that the recipient is still alive, and as no one knew where Baron Hulot lived, the instalments set aside to pay Vauvinet had accumulated at the Treasury. Vauvinet having signed the withdrawal of his claim, it was essential to find the pensioner in order to collect the arrears.
Thanks to Doctor Bianchon’s care, the Baroness had regained her health.
By a letter, whose spelling revealed the Duc d’Hérouville’s collaboration, the kind-hearted Josépha contributed to Adeline’s complete recovery.
This is what the singer wrote to the Baroness after forty days of active investigation.
‘Madame la Baronne,—Two months ago, Monsieur Hulot was living with Élodie Chardin, the lace-mender, who had taken him away from Mademoiselle Bijou. But he went away, leaving all his possessions behind, without saying a word, and no one knows where he has gone. I haven’t given up hope and I’ve sent in search of him a man who already thinks he’s come across him on the Boulevard Bourdon.
The poor Jewess will keep her promise to the Christian. I hope the angel will pray for the demon. That must sometimes happen in heaven.
I am, with deep respect and always, your humble servant,
JOSÉPHA MIRAH.’
Hearing nothing more of the terrible Madame Nourrisson, seeing his father-in-law married, having restored his brother-in-law to the bosom of the family, experiencing no trouble from his new mother-in-law, and finding his mother in better health every day, Maître Hulot d’Ervy became involved with his political and legal work, carried along by the swift current of Parisian life, in which hours are counted as days.
As he had to write a report for the Chamber of Deputies towards the end of the session, he had to spend a whole night working at it.
He went back to his office about nine o’clock, and as he waited for his servant to bring his shaded lamps, he was thinking of his father. He was reproaching himself for leaving the search for him to the singer, and was planning to see Monsieur Chapuzot the next day about the matter, when he saw at his window in the glow of the twilight the fine head of an old man, bald and fringed with white hair.
‘Tell your servant, dear Sir, to admit a poor hermit from the desert, who is collecting money to rebuild a holy almshouse.’
The apparition, which was finding a voice and which suddenly reminded the lawyer of the horrible Nourrisson’s prophecy, made him shudder.
‘Show the old man in,’ he said to his servant.
‘He’ll make Monsieur’s office stink,’ the servant replied. ‘He’s wearing a brown habit that hasn’t been changed since he left Syria and he’s got no shirt…’
‘Show the old man in,’ repeated the lawyer.
The old man came in. Victorin examined the so-called pilgrim hermit with a suspicious eye and saw a superb specimen of those Neapolitan monks whose habits are just like beggars’ rags, whose sandals are tatters of leather, just as the monks themselves are tatters of humanity. The monk was so completely true to life that, although still on his guard, the lawyer rebuked himself for believing in Madame Nourrisson’s spells.
‘What do you want of me?’
‘What you think you ought to give me.’
Victorin took a five-franc piece from a pile of coins and handed it to the stanger.
‘As payment on account for fifty thousand francs, that’s not much,’ said the beggar from the desert.
These words removed all Victorin’s doubts.
‘And has heaven kept its promises?’ asked the lawyer, frowning.
‘Doubt is a sin, my son,’ replied the hermit. ‘If you prefer not to pay till the funeral is over, you’re within your rights. I’ll come back in a week.’
‘The funeral?’ exclaimed the lawyer, getting up.
‘Steps have been taken,’ said the old man as he turned to go, ‘and death moves fast in Paris.’
When Hulot, who had bowed his head, began to reply, the nimble old man had disappeared.
‘I don’t understand a word of all this,’ Hulot said to himself. ‘But in a week’s time, I’ll ask him about my father if we still haven’t found him. Where does Madame Nourrisson (yes, that’s what she calls herself) find such actors?’