But little by little the fog cleared away, and his dream disappeared with it. He had the most exact idea of things when he crossed the Point Royale, and by the time he had set foot on the left bank, he was again the honest Théophraste, and had only the vaguest idea of that which had happened on the right bank. But he could remember this, and when he questioned himself thoroughly, he began to experience the different conditions or states of the soul. He discovered in himself three distinct states. First, that which resulted from his life as an actuality, the honest merchant; second, that which resulted from the sudden and momentary resurrection of the Other; and third, that which resulted from memory. The recollection was to him like a third Théophraste, who related to the first what he had known of the second. This resurrection of Théophraste’s was a terrible thing. On crossing the Bridge he hurried beyond the Rue Guinegaud. He did not care to pass by the corner of the Rue Mazarin, he knew not why. He turned the corner by the Hotel Monniare, and almost ran into Adolphe, who was waiting for him there. “Have you ever heard of a person called L’Enfant, my dear Adolphe?” he asked. “Oh, yes, yes,” said Aldolphe, “I have heard of him. I even know his real name, his family name.” “Ah, what is it?” anxiously inquired Théophraste. Adolphe for reply pushed Théophraste into the hallway of an old house, in the Rue Guinegard, a few steps from the Hotel de la Monniare. They climbed a tottering staircase, and entered a room in which the curtains were drawn. Somebody had spent the night in the room. On a little table in the corner, the trembling flame of a wax candle lit up a portrait. It was the picture of a man about thirty years of age. He had a robust figure, high forehead, strong nose, a smooth chin, and large mouth and moustache. His thick hair was covered by a coarse woolen cap, and he wore a coat over a coarse linen shirt, which appeared to be a prison garb. “Wait,” said Théophraste, without raising his tone, “how is it that my portrait is in this house?” “Your picture?” asked Adolphe. “Are you sure?” “Who could be more sure of it than I?” said Théophraste again, without being excited. “Very well,” said M. Lecamus, with emotions that it would be hard to describe. “That portrait, which is your portrait, is the portrait of Cartouche.” When M. Lecamus turned to see the effect his words would produce on his friend, he saw Théophraste stretched on the floor in a dead swoon. For a long time he worked to bring him to. He blew out the candle and opened the windows, allowing the good air to come in. Théophraste came to himself, and his first words were, “Adolphe, above all things do not speak of this to my wife.” CHAPTER X _Cartouche’s Past_