A few days afterwards, I quitted Spa to return to France, and, as often happens with friends picked up in one's travels, M. Raymond and I parted, as I thought, never to meet again.
It was not, however, thus destined.
Two years afterwards I found myself at Baden-Baden, and was walking on the Lichtenthal promenade. A man I had not before observed, came, and, placing himself suddenly before me, looked at me, as much as to say: "Do you recognise me?"
This man, judging by his appearance, was not one of the aristocracy of the Baden society. He wore a brown coat, which had that peculiar shiny look, which bespeaks long service. It was buttoned up to the throat, to allow him to dispense with the luxury of a waistcoat, or at least to prevent a too minute inspection of his under garments.
His face was ornamented with a pair of large "blondes moustaches," very carefully arranged.
"How the loss of a beard changes the appearance of a man!" said a voice, which I recognised immediately to be that of M. Raymond.
"True," I replied, somewhat absent by a remembrance of former days crossing my brain: "It is true, you are much changed." I looked at M. Raymond; more old recollections crowded into my mind. Those thick moustachios, that military appearance, were connected with an event which had once impressed me deeply. Still I could not quite recall the facts to my mind.
"I will not longer interrupt you in your walk," said M. Raymond, moving away; feeling hurt probably at my hesitation, of which he did not know the cause—when I stopped him:
"You do not interrupt me, 'Mon Voisin,'" I said; "let us walk on together, and we will go to a less frequented part, where you will be able to relate to me, more at your ease, all that has happened to you since we parted."
"Ah! Mon Dieu!" replied poor Raymond with a sigh, "my tale is a simple one; you shall judge for yourself.