They were equals for the moment; the relationship was plain to both of them. With no failing of his countenance, the valet drew the missing, piece from his pocket.
"Mexican?" he said. "I thought it was Spanish."
The coins changed hands. Neither of them failed in his attitude; they were well matched.
The Prince rejoined Dupontel with his Mexican gold piece still in his hand.
"It was this I had left behind," he said, showing the thin-worn gold disc. "It is well, a talisman of mine, a sort of mascot. I was nearly going without it. Rather than do that I would stay at home."
Dupontel laughed. "You are superstitious, then?" he said lightly. "It is not much to look at, your talisman."
The Prince shook his head; it seemed impossible to make him smile that morning.
"That is true," he agreed, "but a man must put faith in something. When you have heard what I have to tell you, you will understand that."
The streets, those lively streets of Paris that mask the keenness of their commerce with so festive a face, were sunlit as they passed on their way, and along the boulevards the trees were gracious with young green. They went at the even and leisurely pace which is natural in that city of many halting-places two men worth turning to look at, so perfectly did each, in his particular way, typify his world. Both were tall, easy-moving, sure and restrained in every gesture. Dupontel at twenty-five, for all the boyishness that sometimes showed in him, had already his finished personal effect; and the Prince, white-haired, dark-browed, with a certain austerity of expression, was as complete a thing as a work of art.
"Then what is it, exactly, that you fear from this Carigny?" asked Dupontel, when the Prince had told him of the letter. "I have heard the story, of course; but I never heard he was dangerous."