Paul shook his head. “It is not that,” said he.
“What, then, is it?”
“Simply that the real man exists; I know him, and know where he lives.”
“What do you mean?” they cried.
“I know him, I tell you—the son of the Duke de Champdoce.”
“Let us hear all!” cried Mascarin, who was the first to come to his senses. “Explain yourself.”
“Simply this. I know such a young man, and it was the thought of this that made me feel so ill. He is thirty-three. He was at the Foundling Hospital; he left it at the age of twelve and a half years; and he has just such a scald on his shoulder, which he got when he was apprenticed to a tanner.”
“And where,” asked Mascarin quickly, “is this same young man? What is his name, and what does he do for a living?”
“He is a painter; his name is Andre, and he lives—”
A blasphemous oath from Mascarin interrupted him. “This is the third time,” said he fiercely, “that this cursed fellow has crossed our path; but I swear that it shall be the last.”