"I was but the servant of the Duke of Guise then," said Barbemouche.
At this point Blaise, who, in all our experiences with De Berquin and his henchmen, had not while sober come within hearing of Barbemouche's voice, or within close sight of him, stepped up and said, coolly:
"Let me see the face that goes with that voice."
And he threw up the front of Barbemouche's hat with one hand, at the same time raising the front of his own with the other. The two men regarded each other for a moment.
"Praise to the God of Israel, we meet again!" cried Blaise, in a loud voice, catching the other by the throat.
"Who are you?" demanded Barbemouche.
"The man on whom you left this mark,"—and Blaise pointed to his own forehead,—"in Paris on St. Bartholomew's night thirteen years ago."
"Then I did not kill you?" muttered Barbemouche, glaring fiercely at Blaise.
"God had further use for me," said Blaise.
De Berquin and I both stepped aside, perceiving that here was a matter in which neither of us was concerned. But we looked on with some interest, deferring until its adjustment our own conversation.