meran to the banker, everything would be
discovered.

Louis's meditations were interrupted by Gaston, who called from the
lower passage:

"What are you doing, Louis? I am waiting for you."

"I am coming now," he replied.

Hastily thrusting Lafourcade's letter into his trunk, Louis ran down to
his brother.

He had made up his mind to borrow a large sum from Gaston, and go off to
America; and Raoul might get out of the scrape as best he could.

The only thing which now disturbed him was the sudden failure of the
most skilful combination he had ever conceived; but he was not a man to
fight against destiny, and determined to make the best of the emergency,
and hope for better fortune in his next scheme.

The next day about dusk, while walking along the pretty road leading
from the foundery to Oloron, he commenced a little story which was to
conclude by asking Gaston to lend him two hundred thousand francs.

As they slowly went along arm in arm, about half a mile from the
foundery they met a young laborer who bowed as he passed them.

Louis dropped his brother's arm, and started back as if he had seen a
ghost.

"What is the matter?" asked Gaston, with astonishment.

"Nothing, except I struck my foot against a stone, and it is very
painful."

Gaston might have known by the tremulous tones of Louis's voice that
this was a lie. Louis de Clameran had reason to tremble; in this workman
he recognized Raoul de Lagors.

Instinctive fear paralyzed and overwhelmed him.

The story he had planned for the purpose of obtaining the two hundred
thousand francs was forgotten; his volubility was gone; and he silently
walked along by his brother's side, like an automaton, totally incapable
of thinking or acting for himself.

He seemed to listen, he did listen; but the words fell upon his ear
unmeaningly; he could not understand what Gaston was saying, and
mechanically answered "yes" or "no," like one in a dream.

Whilst necessity, absolute necessity, kept him here at Gaston's side,
his thoughts were all with the young man who had just passed by.

What had brought Raoul to Oloron? What plot was he hatching? Why was he
disguised as a laborer? Why had he not answered the many letters which
Louis had written him from Oloron? He had ascribed this silence to
Raoul's carelessness, but now he saw it was premeditated. Something
disastrous must have happened at Paris; and Raoul, afraid to commit
himself by writing, had come himself