Abbé Baldini was in search, and some more was required to make his acquaintance. When some intimacy had arisen the abbé told Antoine that, while he had been a prisoner in the Castello dell' Ovo at Naples, for a state offense, he had formed the acquaintance of a comrade who arrived in 1811, and whose death he deeply regretted.
"At that time," he said, "he was a young man of thirty; he died weeping for his lost country, and pardoning all who had done him wrong. He was from Nîmes, and called François Picaud."
Allut could not restrain a cry, and the abbé regarded him with astonishment.
"You knew, then, this Picaud?" he said. "He was one of my best friends. Poor fellow! he died far away. Did you know the cause of his arrest?"
"He did not know himself, and he swore to this so solemnly that I cannot doubt his ignorance."
Allut sighed. The abbé continued:
"As long as he lived, one sole idea occupied him. He would have given, he said, his share of paradise to any one who would tell him the author or authors of his arrest. This fixed idea inspired in Picaud the singular clause in his will. But first, I must tell you that Picaud, while in prison, rendered notable service to an English prisoner, who, on his death-bed, left Picaud a diamond worth at least fifty thousand francs."
"Lucky fellow!" cried Allut, "fifty thousand francs is a fortune!"
"When François Picaud lay dying, he called me to him and said, 'I shall die in peace if you will promise to fulfill my wishes; will you promise?' 'I swear I will, for I am sure you will ask nothing contrary to religion or honor.' 'Oh, nothing. Listen to me, and judge for yourself. I cannot learn the names of those who have plunged me into this hell, but I have had a revelation. The voice of God has warned me that one of my townsmen of Nîmes knows them. Go to him when you are set at liberty, and give him, from me, the diamond I received from Sir Herbert Newton; but I make this condition, that on receiving the diamond, he shall confide to you the names of those whom I regard as my murderers. When you have learned them, you will return to Naples and place them, written on a sheet of lead, in my tomb.'"
Antoine Allut at once confessed that he knew the names sought for, and repeated them, not however without a secret feeling of terror. His wife encouraged him, and the abbé wrote down the names—Gervais Chaubard, Guilhem Solari, and last, Gilles Loupian.
The ring was handed over. It was sold to a jeweler for sixty-three thousand seven hundred and forty-nine francs, eleven centimes, paid down on the spot. Four months later, to the eternal despair of the
