The vehicle came forward slowly, and Jacques, impelled by a secret presentiment, drew very near, and took a few sous from his pocket. Soon the convicts were before him; they held out their crime-stained hands, imploring the pity of the passers-by. Jacques scrutinized them closely, and noticed one who did not imitate his companions in infamy, but who tried on the contrary to avoid the eyes of the crowd; but the villain with whom he was shackled was one of those who displayed the most effrontery; he jerked him violently, and that movement afforded Jacques an opportunity to see the poor wretch’s features; it seemed to him that he recognized his brother. The cold sweat stood on his forehead; and with a movement swifter than thought, he put his hand to his buttonhole and removed his decoration, which he instantly thrust into his breast. The wagon had gone on, and Jacques followed it with his eyes. Sans-Souci pulled his arm. “Come,” he said to him; “how in the devil can you take any pleasure in looking at those beggars?--But what’s the matter with you? Your face is all distorted.” “Ah! I am ruined, Sans-Souci! dishonored!” “You, dishonored! that is impossible; do be reasonable.” “My brother----” “Well?” Jacques dared not utter the fatal words; but with his hand he pointed to the chain of convicts, who could still be seen in the distance. “It wasn’t he, my friend, you made a mistake.” “Ah! would to God I had! But no, it was no mistake; and the words of that kindhearted messenger, his compassionate air as he spoke to me and shook my hand.--There is no more doubt; I understand everything now.” “Well! even if your brother is a miserable villain, is it your fault? Did you fight for your country any the less, and thrash its enemies? And have the scars vanished from your face and your breast? Ten thousand million citadels! Who could ever blush for having known you? I will make the man swallow ten inches of my sword!” “Ah! my name is sullied, my friend. O father! if you knew!” “Your father is dead; if he was alive, your glory would console him for your brother’s shame.” “No, Sans-Souci, consolation for such a calamity is impossible. There is but one thing left for me to do, and that is to overtake those wretched creatures, to find some way to approach the man whom I can no longer call my brother, and to blow his brains out, and then do the same by myself.”