By the handwriting on the envelopes, and the postmarks on the postals, he tried to make out who was writing to him:--one letter only from his wife, evidently but a single sheet, judging from its slender flexibility, three very bulky ones from Toni,--a species of diary in which he continued relating his purchases, his crops, his hope of seeing the captain,--all this mixed in with abundant news about the war, and the wretched condition of the people.
There were, besides, various sheets from the banking establishments at Barcelona, rendering Ferragut an account of the investment of his capital.
At the foot of the staircase he completed his examination of the outside of his correspondence.

It was just what was always awaiting him on his return from his voyages.
He was about to put the package in his pocket and continue on his way when his attention was attracted by a voluminous envelope in an unknown handwriting, registered in Paris....
Curiosity made him open it immediately and he found in his hand a regular sheaf of loose leaves, a long account that far exceeded the limits of a letter.

He looked at the engraved letter-head and then at the signature.

The writer was a lawyer in Paris, and Ferragut suspected by the luxurious paper and address that he must be a celebrated _maitre_.

He even recalled having run across his name somewhere in the newspapers.
Then and there he began reading the first page, anxious to know why this distinguished personage had written to him.