The young woman inclined her head gravely, and somewhat shyly advanced to the centre of the room. Vincent rose to his feet, his face deadly white, trembling in every limb, and bowed. Ignorant of German, he could not utter a word. Chassaigne turned to him, spoke to him in French.
“Look closely at Fräulein Rosenhagen, mon ami—and satisfy yourself.”
The muscles of his face tense under the effort to repress his emotion, to appear normal, the young man looked at her for a long moment. She returned his gaze without a quiver of the eyelids, smiled with the kindliness which sets a stranger at his ease.
“It is she—it is she,” he muttered, hoarsely. “I swear it!”
Chassaigne turned to the young woman.
“My young friend is much affected by your extraordinary resemblance to a lady he knew, Fräulein,” he said, smilingly, in German. “But he perceives now that he was mistaken. You will, I am sure, pardon an emotion that a person of your charm will readily understand. My friend was greatly attached to the lady he thought he recognised in you.”
The young woman smiled upon Vincent in feminine sympathy for a lover.
“Is she a German?” she asked in a rich deep voice that made him start.
Chassaigne replied for him.