But M. Verduret, who anticipated his intentions, was watching him out of the corner of one eye, and stopped him just as he was about leaving the room.
“Not so fast, my pretty youth,” he said, dragging him into the middle of the room; “it is not polite to leave us so unceremoniously. Let us have a little conversation before parting; a little explanation will be edifying!”
The jeering words and mocking manner of M. Verduret made Raoul turn deadly pale, and start back as if confronted by a phantom.
“The clown!” he gasped.
“The same, friend,” said the fat man. “Ah, now that you recognize me, I confess that the clown and myself are one and the same. Yes, I am the mountebank of the Jandidier ball; here is proof of it.”
And turning up his sleeve he showed a deep cut on his arm.
“I think that this recent wound will convince you of my identity,” he continued. “I imagine you know the villain that gave me this little decoration, that night I was walking along the Rue Bourdaloue. That being the case, you know, I have a slight claim upon you, and shall expect you to relate to us your little story.”
But Raoul was so terrified that he could not utter a word.
“Your modesty keeps you silent,” said M. Verduret. “Bravo! modesty becomes talent, and for one of your age you certainly have displayed a talent for knavery.”
M. Fauvel listened without understanding a word of what was said.