"It seemed to come over him very suddenly, did it not?" said Christian absently.

"Ay, it did," said the captain. "Ye seemed to know him!"

Christian turned and looked his companion full in the face. "I have met him twice," he said quietly. "He was in England for some years, I believe; a political refugee, he called himself."

By sea and land Captain Lebrun had learnt to devote an exclusive attention to his own affairs, allowing other men to manage theirs, well or ill, according to their fancy. He knew that Christian Vellacott wished to tell him no more, and he was content that it should be so, but he had noticed a circ.u.mstance which, from the young journalist's position, was probably invisible. He turned to give an order to the man at the wheel, and then walked slowly and with some difficulty (for Captain Lebrun suffered, in a quiet way, agonies from rheumatism) back towards his pa.s.senger.

"Seemed to me," he said reflectively, as he looked upwards to see if the foretopsail was shivering, "as if he had something in his hand when a'

fell."

Christian followed the Captain's gaze. The sails were now filling well, and there was an exhilarating sound of straining cordage in the air while the vessel glided on. The young journalist was not an impressionable man, but he felt all these things. The sense of open freedom, the gentle rise and fall of the vessel, the whirring breeze, and the distant line of high land up the Rance towards Dinant--all these were surely worth hearing, feeling, and seeing; a.s.suredly, they added to the joy of living.

"Something in his hand," he repeated gravely; "what was it?"

Captain Lebrun turned sideways towards the steersman, and made a little gesture with his left hand. A wrinkle had appeared in one corner of the foretopsail. Then he looked round the horizon with a sailor's far-seeing gaze, before replying.

"Seemed to me," he mumbled, without taking his pipe from his lips, "that it was a revolver."

Then the two men smoked in silence for some time. The little vessel moved steadily out towards the blue water, pa.s.sing a lighthouse built upon a solitary rock, and later a lightship, with its clean red hull gleaming in the sunlight as it rose and fell lazily. So close were they to the latter that the man watching on deck waved his hand in salutation.

Still Vellacott had vouchsafed no reply to Captain Lebrun's strange statement. He sat on the low rail, swinging one leg monotonously, while the square little sailor stood at his side with that patient maritime reflectiveness which is being slowly killed by the quicker ways of steam.

"My calling brings me into contact with a rum lot of people," said the young fellow at last, "and I suppose all of us make enemies without knowing it."

With this vague elucidation the little skipper was forced to content himself. He gave a grunt of acquiescence, and walked forward to superintend the catheading of the anchor.

CHAPTER XXVII

IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE AGAIN

One would almost have said that the good citizen Jacquetot was restless and disturbed. It was not that the little tobacco shop left aught to be desired in the way of order, neither had the tobacconist quitted his seat at the window-end of the counter. But he was not smoking, and at short intervals he drew aside the little red curtain and looked out into the quiet Rue St. Gingolphe with a certain eagerness.

The tobacconist was not in the habit of going to meet things. He usually waited for them to come to him. But on this particular evening of September in a year which it is not expedient to name, he seemed to be looking out into the street in order that he might not be taken by surprise in the event of an arrival. Moreover he mopped his vast forehead at unnecessarily frequent intervals, just as one may note a snuff-taker have recourse to that solace more frequently when he is agitated than when a warm calm reigns within his breast.

"So quiet--so quiet," he muttered, "in our little street--and in the others--who knows? It would appear that they have their shutters lowered there."

He listened intently, but there was no sound except the clatter of an occasional cart or the distant whistle of a Seine steamer.

Then the tobacconist returned to the perusal of the _Pet.i.t Journal_. Before he had skimmed over many lines, he looked up sharply and drew aside the red curtain. Yes! It was some one at last. The footsteps were hurried and yet hesitating--the gait of a person not knowing his whereabouts. And yet the man who entered the shop a moment later was evidently the same who had come to the citizen Jacquetot when last we met him.

"Ah!" exclaimed the tobacconist. "It is you!"

"No," replied the other. "It is not. I am not the citizen...Morot--I think you call it."

"But, yes!" exclaimed the fat man in amazement. "You are that citizen, and you are also the Vicomte d'Audierne."

The new-comer was looking round him curiously; he stepped towards the curtained door, and turned the handle.

"I am," he said, "his brother. We are twins. There is a resemblance. Is this the room? Yes!"

"Yes, monsieur. It is! But never was there such a resemblance."

The tobacconist mopped his head breathlessly.

"Go," said the other, "and get a mattress. Bring it and lay it on this table. My brother is wounded. He has been hit."

Jacquetot rose laboriously from his seat. He knew now that this was not the Vicomte d'Audierne. This man's method was quite different. He spoke with a quiet air of command, not doubting that his orders would be obeyed. He was obviously not in the habit of dealing with the People.

The Vicomte d'Audierne had a different manner of speaking to different people--this man, who resembled him so strangely, gave his orders without heeding the reception of them.

The tobacconist was essentially a man of peace. He pa.s.sed out of a small door in the corner of the shop, obeying without a murmur, and leaving the new-comer alone.

A moment later the sound of wheels awoke the peaceful stillness of the Rue St. Gingolphe. The vehicle stopped, and at the same instant the man pa.s.sed through the little curtained doorway into the room at the back of the shop, closing the door after him.

The gas was turned very low, and in the semi-darkness he stood quite still, waiting. He had not long to wait; he had scarcely closed the door when it was opened again, and some one entered rapidly, closing it behind him. Then the first comer raised his arm and turned up the gas.

Across the little table, in the sudden flood of light, two men stood looking at each other curiously. They were so startlingly alike, in height and carriage and every feature, that there was something weird and unpleasant in their action--in their silence.

"Ah!" said the last comer. "It is thou. I almost fired!"

And he threw down on the table a small revolver.

"Why have you done this?" continued the Vicomte d'Audierne. "I thought we agreed sixteen years ago that the world was big enough to contain us both without meeting, if we exercised a little care."

"She is dead," replied the brother. "She died two years ago--the wife of Prangius--what does it matter now?"

"I know that--but why did you come?"

"I was ordered to Paris by the General. I was near you at the barricade, and I heard the bullet hit you. Where is it?"

The Vicomte looked down at his hand, which was pressed to his breast; the light of the gas flickered, and gleamed on his spectacles as he did so.

"In my chest," he replied. "I am simply dripping with blood. It has trickled down my legs into my boots. Very hot at first--and then very cold."

The other looked at him curiously, and across his velvety eyes there pa.s.sed that strange contraction which has been noted in the glance of the Vicomte d'Audierne.

"I have sent for a mattress," he said. "That bullet must come out. A doctor is following me; he will be here on the instant."

"One of your Jesuits?"

"Yes--one of my Jesuits."

The Vicomte d'Audierne smiled and winced. He staggered a little, and clutched at the back of a chair. The other watched him without emotion.