Haunted by the strange episode of the morning, I strove vainly to become absorbed in bills of lading, and so forth, till one o'clock should toll from the spires—the time for plunging into the crowd of noisy speculators at the Bourse—and I was just about to set forth, when a stranger was announced; I looked up, and was face to face with the horrible Graindorge! He stood before me just as I had seen him at the garden-rail, with his tall shiny hat, his shabby coat, his bloated visage with its black mole and malignant smile.
"Your business?" I asked curtly.
"Will be briefly stated, Herr Steinmetz," said he. "So madame fully recognized me this morning?"
"Or thought she did," said I, after a short interval of silence.
"There was no doubt in the matter, but firm conviction. I did not die in Senegal, the report was false; and so, Herr Steinmetz, I am here to claim my wife and take her back with me to Lorraine."
"You are a foul impostor!" cried I furiously, yet with a sinking heart; "and I shall hand you over to the watch."
"Pardon me, but you will do nothing of the kind," replied the other, with the most exasperating composure; "it will not be pleasant to have your wife—your supposed wife, I mean—made a source of speculation to all Hamburg, by any public exposé."
"Oh, my God! my poor Paquette!" I exclaimed involuntarily; "and I love her so!"
"Milles diables!" grinned the Frenchman; "it is more than I do."
"Wretch! what proof have we that you are Baptiste Graindorge, and not a cheat—a trickster?"