The stranger had seated himself upon a mound of turf, from which the front of the house could be seen. Edouard approached and sat down beside him. “Oh! I beg your pardon, monsieur,” said the stranger, as if suddenly arousing himself from his abstraction, “I have not thought yet to thank you for your kindness. But I was in such a hurry to see this place again!” “Oh! there is no harm done.” “Are you the son of the owner of this house?” “No.” “So much the better for you.” “Why so?” “Because he is an old money-lender, an impertinent fellow; and so is his concierge, to whom I was strongly tempted to administer a thrashing, in order to teach him how to behave!” “What have they done to you?” “I came to this village for the express purpose of seeing this house. I arrived here yesterday, utterly tired out; I entered the courtyard, and sat down on a stone bench to rest. The concierge came to me, and asked me what I was there for. I told him that I wanted to see the garden. He asked me if I intended to buy the house. That question was an impertinence in itself, for I don’t look like a person with money to invest.” “That is true,” thought Edouard. “When he learned that I had come here for another reason, he ordered me to leave; I asked him again to let me walk about this garden for a moment; he called his master; an old Jew appeared, and the two together tried to turn me out! Ten thousand thunders! Turn me out! me--a--But, no! I forgot that I am one no longer! All the same, if it hadn’t been that my memories restrained me, I would have thrashed master and servant. I didn’t do it, however, and as I was able only to look at the place from a distance, I took my stand behind that gate where you saw me yesterday.” “I am very glad that I have been able to atone for the discourtesy of the concierge, and that I found you again to-day at the same place.” “Faith! it’s a mere chance! If I were not waiting for a comrade, whom I agreed to meet in this village, I certainly should not have stayed here.” “Ah! you are waiting for a comrade?” “Yes, monsieur.” Edouard was silent for a moment; he seemed to be reflecting upon what the stranger had said; the latter resumed the conversation. “Excuse me, monsieur, if I question you in my turn; but how does it happen that the old villain of a proprietor has intrusted the keys of his garden to you?” “This house no longer belongs to Monsieur Renâré; he has sold it to me this very day.” “Sold it! Pardieu! I am delighted to hear that. I was distressed to see this house in the clutches of that Arab!” “You seem to be very fond of this house?” “I well may be, as I passed a large part of my youth here.” “You?” “I.” Edouard looked more closely at the stranger; vague suspicions, a secret presentiment made his heart leap. He observed that the stranger was young and that it seemed to be fatigue simply that had wasted his sun-burned features; he desired, yet dreaded to learn more.