And over and over again he asked himself: "Does he recognise me; and, if so, what will he do?"
Presently the woman—who had been knitting behind a counter at which she sat, superintending the bringing in of his sparse meal, and ordering her husband, whom she addressed as André, to call to the serving maid for one thing after another—left the room to see to "monsieur's appartement." He had said to her he was very tired; he would go to it at once if it was ready, early in the evening as it was.
Then he rose as she disappeared and requested the man to show him where it was, and, when he too rose, followed him upstairs.
It was a poor enough place when he got there, in keeping with the whole of the house—a room in which there was a bed in one corner and a chair in another, and with some washing utensils in a third, but nothing more.
"Call me at daybreak," he said to the man André. "I shall sleep until then if I can. Then I must be on my way to—Paris."
"Si, si," the other replied. "You shall be called," and he went toward the door, though, both there and before, he did not cease to glance furtively at him. These glances had not been unobserved, however, by St. Georges, who in his turn had been equally watching him to see if any absolute recognition appeared to dawn upon him. And now, as the man prepared to depart and leave him alone, he said, speaking as carelessly as possible:
"Well! you thought you knew my face, friend. Have you been able to recall yet where you saw it last?" and he looked him straight in the eyes.
But the other only shook his head, and grumbled out:
"No, no. I cannot remember. Perhaps—it may be—I am mistaken."