out of a dream. For the first time since the Revolution had begun, the horror of it and the meaning of it were brought home to him. He had been so long expatriated, had loitered so long in the primrose path of daily sleep and nightly revel, had fallen so far, that he little realised how the fiery wheels of Death were spinning in France, or how black was the torment of her people. His face turned scarlet as the thing came home to him now. He dropped his head in his hand as if to listen more attentively, but it was in truth to hide his emotion. When the names of Vaufontaine and de Tournay were mentioned, he gave a little start, then suddenly ruled himself to a strange stillness. His face seemed presently to clear; he even smiled a little. Conscious that de Mauprat and Delagarde were watching him, he appeared to listen with a keen but impersonal interest, not without its effect upon his scrutinisers. He nodded his head as though he understood the situation. He acted very well; he bewildered the onlookers. They might think he tallied with the description of the Comte de Tournay, yet he gave the impression that the matter was not vital to himself. But when the little Chevalier stopped and turned his eye-glass upon him with sudden startled inquiry, he found it harder to keep composure.
“Singular—singular!” said the old man, and returned to the reading of the letter.
When he ended there was absolute silence for a moment. Then the chevalier lifted his eye-glass again and looked at Detricand intently.
“Pardon me, monsieur,” he said, “but you were with Rullecour—as I was saying.”
Detricand nodded with a droll sort of helplessness, and answered: “In Jersey I never have chance to forget it, Chevalier.”
Du Champsavoys, with a naive and obvious attempt at playing counsel, fixed him again with the glass, pursed his lips, and with the importance of a greffier at the ancient Cour d’Heritage, came one step nearer to his goal.
“Have you knowledge of the Comte de Tournay, monsieur?”
“I knew him—as you were saying, Chevalier,” answered Detricand lightly.
Then the Chevalier struck home. He dropped his fingers upon the table, stood up, and, looking straight into Detricand’s eyes, said:
“Monsieur, you are the Comte de Tournay!”
The Chevalier involuntarily held the silence for an instant. Nobody stirred. De Mauprat dropped his chin upon his hands, and his eyebrows drew down in excitement. Guida gave a little cry of astonishment. But Detricand answered the Chevalier with a look of blank surprise and a shrug of the shoulder, which had the effect desired.
“Thank you, Chevalier,” said he with quizzical humour. “Now I know who I am, and if it isn’t too soon to levy upon the kinship, I shall dine with you today, chevalier. I paid my debts yesterday, and sous are scarce, but since we are distant cousins I may claim grist at the family mill, eh?”
The Chevalier sat, or rather dropped into his chair again.
“Then you are not the Comte de Tournay, monsieur,” said he hopelessly.
“Then I shall not dine with you to-day,” retorted Detricand gaily.
“You fit the tale,” said de Mauprat dubiously, touching the letter with his finger.
“Let me see,” rejoined Detricand. “I’ve been a donkey farmer, a shipmaster’s assistant, a tobacco pedlar, a quarryman, a wood merchant, an interpreter, a fisherman—that’s very like the Comte de Tournay! On Monday night I supped with a smuggler; on Tuesday I breakfasted on soupe a la graisse with Manon Moignard the witch; on Wednesday I dined with Dormy Jamais and an avocat disbarred for writing lewd songs for a chocolate-house; on Thursday I went oyster-fishing with a native who has three wives, and a butcher who has been banished four times for not keeping holy the Sabbath Day; and I drank from eleven o’clock till sunrise this morning with three Scotch sergeants of the line—which is very like the Comte de Tournay, as you were saying, Chevalier! I am five feet eleven, and the Comte de Tournay was five feet ten—which is no lie,” he added under his breath. “I have a scar, but it’s over my left shoulder and not over my right—which is also no lie,” he added under his breath. “De Tournay’s hair was brown, and mine, you see, is almost a dead black—fever did that,” he added under his breath. “De Tournay escaped the day after the Battle of Jersey from the prison hospital, I was left, and here I’ve been ever since—Yves Savary dit Detricand at your service, chevalier.”
A pained expression crossed over the Chevalier’s face. “I am most sorry; I am most sorry,” he said hesitatingly. “I had no wish to wound your feelings.”
“Ah, it is de Tournay to whom you must apologise,” said Detricand musingly, with a droll look.
“It is a pity,” continued the Chevalier, “for somehow all at once I recalled a resemblance. I saw de Tournay when he was fourteen—yes, I think it was fourteen—and when I looked at you, monsieur, his face came back to me. It would have made my cousin so happy if you had been the Comte de Tournay and I had found you here.” The old man’s voice trembled a little. “We are growing fewer every day, we Frenchmen of the ancient families. And it would have made my cousin so happy, as I was saying, monsieur.”
Detricand’s manner changed; he became serious. The devil-may-care, irresponsible shamelessness of his face dropped away like a mask. Something had touched him. His voice changed too.
“De Tournay was a much better fellow than I am, chevalier,” said he—“and that’s no lie,” he added under his breath. “De Tournay was a fiery, ambitious, youngster with bad companions. De Tournay told me he repented of coming with Rullecour, and he felt he had spoilt his life—that he could never return to France again or to his people.”
The old Chevalier shook his head sadly. “Is he dead?” he asked.
There was a slight pause, and then Detricand answered: “No, still living.”
“Where is he?”
“I promised de Tournay that I would never reveal that.”
“Might I not write to him?” asked the old man. “Assuredly, Chevalier.”
“Could you—will you—despatch a letter to him from me, monsieur?”
“Upon my honour, yes.”
“I thank you—I thank you, monsieur; I will write it to-day.”
“As you will, Chevalier. I will ask you for the letter to-night,” rejoined Detricand. “It may take time to reach de Tournay; but he shall receive it into his own hands.”
De Mauprat trembled to his feet to put the question he knew the Chevalier dreaded to ask:
“Do you think that monsieur le comte will return to France?”
“I think he will,” answered Detricand slowly.
“It will make my cousin so happy—so happy,” quavered the little Chevalier. “Will you take snuff with me, monsieur?” He offered his silver snuff-box to his vagrant countryman. This was a mark of favour he showed to few.
Detricand bowed, accepted, and took a pinch. “I must be going,” he said.
CHAPTER IX
