“Ah, these flirtings of yours, Lucette!” whispered Pascal, as she wheeled the horse around. “Yes, in an hour, here,” he added aloud, “and don’t keep me waiting. It is as I thought, monsieur, my wife will return to meet me here,” he said lightly, turning to the officer, who was looking very intently indeed after Lucette. “Umph! Curious! A strange resemblance!” The words were muttered in a low whisper, but not so low as to escape Pascal’s sharp ears, and the officer gave him a quick suspicious glance. Pascal’s easy indifference appeared to reassure him, however. “Here’s the man, monsieur,” he said. And again Pascal cursed his luck. It was the soldier with whom he had made friends in going to the Castle the preceding day. But he put his usual bold face on the matter and with a salutation to the officer went off, leaving the man to follow him. The officer looked after him thoughtfully, re-entered the guard-house, read over the replies to his question, and pondered them. “I must be wrong,” he mused. “But if so no harm can be done in having her followed. ‘Pascal Tourelle of Paris--and Lucette!’ I’ll send the names to Boutelle at the Castle too, and be prepared against their returning--if they do return. No, there might be trouble that I didn’t detain them. But I’ll have the wife followed.” He gave directions for this at once, and thus laid a train that was to lead to serious consequences. Meanwhile Pascal was cudgelling his wits how to get rid of his companion, and felt none too easy under the sharp glances which the man kept casting at him, as they walked side by side. “Did I hear your name was Pascal Tourelle, monsieur?” asked the soldier suspiciously. “I don’t know what you heard, my man, but it is my name. Pascal the First, that is.” “You’ve been a soldier, monsieur, haven’t you? I judge by your bearing.” “In the Paris train bands. But one twin was as much as my father could spare to the army.” “Twin?” questioned the man doubtingly. “Yes, twin. Pascal the Second,” laughed Pascal. “A good soldier he is too; and, like a good soldier, with a palate for good wine and an eye for a pretty face. Lately come to Morvaix. His presence brought me here. He’s at the Castle.” “I know him,” was the reply, with a smile and a nod and a knowing wink. “What! You know Pascal the Second!” and he stopped and held out his hand. “Any comrade of his is my friend, and I can do what he very frequently can’t, pledge the friendship in a flask of good wine.” “You’re wonderfully like him, and to bear the same name is curious too.” He spoke as if still suspicious. “Ah, if you knew the devils of messes he’s got me into in Paris with this same name which my father’s whim gave us, and this strange likeness! But come, where shall we have the wine?” The soldier soon found a wine shop, and Pascal plied him freely with liquor, a second flask quickly following the first. When the second was still half full he rose and said--