he Marquis, who started.
Criminals are subject to these involuntary starts.

"We are here," said Cyprien.

"Ah!" answered the Marquis.

"Do you see on that side hill a tiny house, which seems to hold its
equilibrium almost by a miracle? It is there that we shall find Pierre
Labarre."

"But he may not be at home?"

"He never goes out, this hermit." And Cyprien laughed.

The house that Cyprien pointed out was much more like a hut--it
consisted of one story. Before the door were two or three worn stone
steps. The door was of oak, and looked strong. On each side of the door
was a window, which had heavy shutters that could be bolted at night.
These were now open.

There was not a sound nor a movement about the house, at the back of
which was an enclosure of moderate dimensions most carefully cultivated.

The Marquis hastened on, impatiently. He struck two or three blows with
his cane on the door.

A voice within called out, "Who is there?"

The two accomplices exchanged a glance. Their expedition promised well.

"The Marquis de Fongereues."

Instantly the door opened, and an old man appeared. It was the man whom
we saw in the Black Forest in the beginning of our narrative, the man
who then escaped from the assassin, and who told the old Marquis of
Simon's retreat. But the ten years that had since elapsed had left their
traces on his brow; and perhaps it was not years alone that had lined
his brow, faded his eyes, and bent his form. His face was sad--a shadow
rested upon it.

"Enter, sir," said the former servant of the Fongereues family.

The room into which the Marquis stepped was simply furnished--one corner
was curtained off.

"Please be seated, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Pierre.

"I am forced to believe, Pierre," answered the Marquis, "that in the
nine years that have elapsed since my father's death you have forgotten
your good breeding. Will you kindly remember that my title is the
Marquis de Fongereues?"

Pierre held himself more erect. His face was like one of Rembrandt's
pictures, where each wrinkle hides a thought.

"I know but one Marquis de Fongereues!" he said, slowly.

"And who may that be?" asked the Marquis, bringing his closed hand down
upon the table.

"The son of the man who was murdered in 1815, in the village of
Leigoutte!" answered Labarre, with perfect calmness.

"Murdered! That man fell when fighting against the true masters of
France!"

"Your brother, Monsieur le Vicomte