“Ah!” exclaimed the tobacconist. “It is you!”
“No,” replied the other. “It is not. I am not the citizen...Morot—I think you call it.”
“But, yes!” exclaimed the fat man in amazement. “You are that citizen, and you are also the Vicomte d'Audierne.”
The new-comer was looking round him curiously; he stepped towards the curtained door, and turned the handle.
“I am,” he said, “his brother. We are twins. There is a resemblance. Is this the room? Yes!”
“Yes, monsieur. It is! But never was there such a resemblance.”
The tobacconist mopped his head breathlessly.
“Go,” said the other, “and get a mattress. Bring it and lay it on this table. My brother is wounded. He has been hit.”
Jacquetot rose laboriously from his seat. He knew now that this was not the Vicomte d'Audierne. This man's method was quite different. He spoke with a quiet air of command, not doubting that his orders would be obeyed. He was obviously not in the habit of dealing with the People. The Vicomte d'Audierne had a different manner of speaking to different people—this man, who resembled him so strangely, gave his orders without heeding the reception of them.
The tobacconist was essentially a man of peace. He passed out of a small door in the corner of the shop, obeying without a murmur, and leaving the new-comer alone.