“Yes, monsieur,” continued the stranger after a moment’s silence, “I have lived in this house. Indeed I was partly brought up here. At that time I was with my parents, and the future looked very bright to me. I had a kind father, I had a brother! I left them all! And I well deserve what is happening to me now!” “Are your parents dead?” asked Edouard in a broken voice, gazing at the man whom he already feared that he recognized. “Yes, monsieur, they are dead,--perhaps of the sorrow that I caused them! My mother did not love me very much; but my father was devoted to me! And I shall never see him again! Oh! this accursed temper of mine, that has made me do so many foolish things!” “And your brother?” “My brother is still alive, so I learned at Paris; he has just married, I was told. The person who told me was not then able to give me his address, but is to give it to me to-morrow; then I shall go to see him. Poor Edouard, he will be greatly surprised to see me! I will bet that he thinks that I am dead!” Edouard did not reply; he lowered his eyes, uncertain as to what course he ought to adopt, and not daring to admit to himself that it was his brother whom he had found. Jacques,--for it was he in very truth,--Jacques had relapsed into meditation; with one hand he fondled his long moustaches, and with the other rubbed his forehead as if he wished to clear up his ideas. Edouard stood motionless and silent; his eyes turned sometimes upon the friend of his childhood, but the shabby coat, the old gaiters, and above all, the long beard, checked the impulse of his heart which bade him throw himself into his brother’s arms without stopping to consider his dress, or without wondering what his position might be. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike Jacques’s mind, and he turned to Edouard, and said abruptly: “It isn’t impossible that you may know my brother; you seem to belong to fashionable society, and you usually live in Paris, do you not?” “I do.” “Perhaps you may have heard of Edouard Murville?” “Yes--I--I know him.” “You know my brother?” “I am Edouard Murville.” Edouard said these words in such a low tone that no one but Jacques could have heard them; but he was listening closely, and before his brother had finished his sentence, he had thrown himself on his neck, and pressed him in his arms. Edouard submitted to the embrace with very good grace; but the infernal moustaches still disturbed him; he did not feel at his ease, and he did not know whether he ought to rejoice or to be sorry that he had found his brother. “I say, why didn’t you tell me your name sooner?” said Jacques, after embracing Edouard again; “didn’t you guess who I was?” “Yes, but I wanted to be certain.” “And you--you seem to be rich and happy?” “I--yes.” “You are married; and where is your wife? I shall be delighted to know her.” “My wife----”