"And your parents?"
"Our parents are tenants of the abbey, sir."
"Come," said the soldier, whom the reader has doubtless already recognized, "I am an old fool—but—the union of these two names—James—Angela. Come, come, Polyphème, you lose your head, my friend; because you encounter two little peasants you imagine—" he shrugged his shoulders; "it is hardly worth while to have this big white beard at one's chin only to give way to such visions! If it is to make such discoveries that you return from Moscow, Polyphème, you might just as well—have done——"
While speaking thus to himself, Croustillac had examined the young girl with the greatest curiosity; more and more struck with a resemblance which seemed incomprehensible, he fastened eager eyes on Angela.
The young girl again frightened, said to her brother, hiding her face behind his shoulder: "Heavens! how he frightens me, again!"
"However, these features," said Croustillac, feeling his heart beat with doubt, anxiety, fear and despair all at once, "these charming features recall to me—but no—it is impossible—impossible. By what probability? Decidedly, I am an old fool. Farmers? Come, that sabre cut I got on the head at the siege of Azof has deranged my brain. After all, there are chances so strange (and surely, more than any one else, I should believe in the oddities of chance; I should be an ingrate to deny it); yes, chance might occasion peasants to give their children certain names rather than others, but chance does not make these resemblances—come, it is impossible. After all, I can ask them, and in asking them I shall laugh at myself; it is stupid. My children, tell me, what is your father's name?"
"James, sir."
"Yes, James—but James—what?"
"James, sir."
"James? nothing more?"