Ten years had passed since Pierre Labarre rode alone through the Black Forest, and saved himself from the bullet of the then Vicomte de Talizac by his portfolio. Pierre's hair had grown gray now, but his eyes looked as fearlessly on the world as if he had been thirty.
"Come in, vicomte," said the old man, earnestly.
The marquis and Simon followed Pierre into a small, plainly furnished room; the only decoration was a black piece of mourning almost covering one of the walls. While the old man turned up the small lamp, Simon, without being noticed, closed the door. Pierre pointed to a straw chair and calmly said:
"Monsieur le Vicomte, will you please take a seat?"
The marquis angrily said:
"Pierre Labarre, it surprises me that in the nine years which have passed since the death of my father, the Marquis of Fougereuse, you should have forgotten what a servant's duties are! Since seven years I bear the title of my father; why do you persist in calling me Monsieur le Vicomte?"
Pierre Labarre stroked the white hair from his forehead with his long bony hand and slowly said:
"I know only one Marquis of Fougereuse."
"And who should bear this title if not I?" cried the marquis, angrily.
"The son of the man who was murdered at Leigoutte in the year 1805," replied Pierre.