"This gentleman's name!" repeated all the travellers.
"Louis Duroc, called the African; I asked him his name at Anse, while we were talking at the inn, and I have seen it, besides, on his portmanteau."
"Well, what next?" asked the officer, laughing. "It certainly is my name."
"Can it be!" interrupted Gontran; "and you are—"
"The workman in question; yes, gentlemen. There would have been no use in telling it, but now there is no use in concealing it. I entered the service a week after the accident, and my regiment had to leave for Algeria, so that I never again met my friends of the carriage; however, I hope to see them again at Lyons."
"I will take you to them," said Darvon quickly, while offering his hand to the officer; "for I wish we may be friends, Monsieur Louis."
"What, we!" replied the military man, regarding Gontran with hesitation.
"Oh! please forget all that has passed," replied the latter; "I am ready, if necessary, to acknowledge I have been wrong—"
"No!" interrupted Duroc, "no, indeed; I was the wrong-headed one, and I regret it, I give you my word of honor. Bad habits of the regiment, you see. Because we have no fear, we like to show it on all occasions, and to each new-comer, and so play the bully, but at heart good children; so without malice, monsieur."
He had cordially pressed Gontran's hand, Lepré seizing his at the same time.