A thousand stories were circulated, talked over, corrected, and added to by the ill-natured and malicious,--some abominably absurd, others simply idiotic.

Twenty people, very noble and still more proud, had not been above sending their most intelligent servants to pay a little visit among the count's retainers, for the sole purpose of learning something positive.

As it was, nobody knew anything; and yet everybody pretended to be fully informed.
Let any one explain who can this very common phenomenon: A crime is committed; justice arrives, wrapped in mystery; the police are still ignorant of almost everything; and yet details of the most minute character are already circulated about the streets.
"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.