Suddenly an idea seemed to strike Jacques’s mind, and he turned to Edouard, and said abruptly:
“It isn’t impossible that you may know my brother; you seem to belong to fashionable society, and you usually live in Paris, do you not?”
“I do.”
“Perhaps you may have heard of Edouard Murville?”
“Yes—I—I know him.”
“You know my brother?”
“I am Edouard Murville.”
Edouard said these words in such a low tone that no one but Jacques could have heard them; but he was listening closely, and before his brother had finished his sentence, he had thrown himself on his neck, and pressed him in his arms.
Edouard submitted to the embrace with very good grace; but the infernal moustaches still disturbed him; he did not feel at his ease, and he did not know whether he ought to rejoice or to be sorry that he had found his brother.
“I say, why didn’t you tell me your name sooner?” said Jacques, after embracing Edouard again; “didn’t you guess who I was?”