The house that Cyprien pointed out was much more like a hut—it consisted of one story. Before the door were two or three worn stone steps. The door was of oak, and looked strong. On each side of the door was a window, which had heavy shutters that could be bolted at night. These were now open.
There was not a sound nor a movement about the house, at the back of which was an enclosure of moderate dimensions most carefully cultivated.
The Marquis hastened on, impatiently. He struck two or three blows with his cane on the door.
A voice within called out, "Who is there?"
The two accomplices exchanged a glance. Their expedition promised well.
"The Marquis de Fongereues."
Instantly the door opened, and an old man appeared. It was the man whom we saw in the Black Forest in the beginning of our narrative, the man who then escaped from the assassin, and who told the old Marquis of Simon's retreat. But the ten years that had since elapsed had left their traces on his brow; and perhaps it was not years alone that had lined his brow, faded his eyes, and bent his form. His face was sad—a shadow rested upon it.
"Enter, sir," said the former servant of the Fongereues family.
The room into which the Marquis stepped was simply furnished—one corner was curtained off.