“Are you quite certain of that?” he replied. “Come, you certainly know my old friend, M. de Villegre?”
An evident feeling of anxiety appeared on M. Costeclar’s countenance.
“I do,” he stammered.
“Did not M. Villegre call upon you before the war?”
“He did.”
“Well, ‘twas I who sent him to you; and the commands which he delivered to you were mine.”
“Yours?”
“Mine. I am Marius de Tregars.”
A nervous shudder shook M. Costeclar’s lean frame. Instinctively his eye turned towards the door.
“You see,” Marius went on with the same gentleness, “we are, you and I, old acquaintances. For you quite remember me now, don’t you? I am the son of that poor Marquis de Tregars who came to Paris, all the way from his old Brittany with his whole fortune, —two millions.”