At that Barres completely lost countenance, but the other man began to laugh:
“Certainly you are Garry Barres, a painter, a celebrated Beaux Arts man of——”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Barres, “you are 260 Renoux! You are little Georges Renoux, of the atelier Ledoux!—on the architect’s side!—you are that man who left his card for me this evening! I’ve seen you often! You were a little devil of a nouveau!—but you were always the centre of every bit of mischief in the rue Bonaparte! You put the whole Quarter en charette! I saw you do it.”
“I saw you,” laughed Renoux, “on one notorious occasion, teaching jiu-jitsu to a policeman! Don’t talk to me about my escapades!”
Cordially, firmly, in grinning silence, they shook hands. And for a moment the intervening years seemed to melt away; the golden past became the present; and Renoux even thrilled a little at the condescension of Barres in shaking hands with him—the nouveau honoured by the ancien!—the reverence never entirely forgotten.
“What are you, anyway, Renoux?” asked Barres, still astonished at the encounter, but immensely interested.
“My friend, you have already guessed. I am Captain: Military Intelligence Department. You know? There are no longer architects or butchers or bakers in France, only soldiers. And of those soldiers I am a very humble one.”
“On secret duty here,” nodded Barres.
“I need not ask an old Beaux Arts comrade to be discreet and loyal.”
“My dear fellow, France is next in my heart after my own country. Tell me, you are following that Irishman, Soane, and his boche friend, Max Freund, are you not?”