A moment later the sound of wheels awoke the peaceful stillness of the Rue St. Gingolphe. The vehicle stopped, and at the same instant the man passed through the little curtained doorway into the room at the back of the shop, closing the door after him.
The gas was turned very low, and in the semi-darkness he stood quite still, waiting. He had not long to wait; he had scarcely closed the door when it was opened again, and some one entered rapidly, closing it behind him. Then the first comer raised his arm and turned up the gas.
Across the little table, in the sudden flood of light, two men stood looking at each other curiously. They were so startlingly alike, in height and carriage and every feature, that there was something weird and unpleasant in their action—in their silence.
“Ah!” said the last comer. “It is thou. I almost fired!”
And he threw down on the table a small revolver.
“Why have you done this?” continued the Vicomte d'Audierne. “I thought we agreed sixteen years ago that the world was big enough to contain us both without meeting, if we exercised a little care.”
“She is dead,” replied the brother. “She died two years ago—the wife of Prangius—what does it matter now?”
“I know that—but why did you come?”
“I was ordered to Paris by the General. I was near you at the barricade, and I heard the bullet hit you. Where is it?”
The Vicomte looked down at his hand, which was pressed to his breast; the light of the gas flickered, and gleamed on his spectacles as he did so.