"Yes, Monsieur, I knew you by name, and now that I look at you closely, I feel that I know your face also. You have one of those countenances which always seem familiar and linger in the memory. I cannot say when or where I have seen you, but I believe it has been not once but a thousand times. When I opened my eyes and looked upon your face, it seemed to me that long ago I had known you well." On first beholding his fiancée's father, de Brezé had experienced a feeling that now returned with renewed force. Although love confiscates all sentiments, in order to focus them on the adored one, René gazed beyond Amélie as he spoke, having eyes only for Charles Louis. The father's age seemed near forty, his head was of spacious front with arched brow and blond hair, somewhat silvered and curling naturally. An infantile dimple marked his chin, his breast-bone was high and a slight obesity marred his form which still, however, preserved graceful outlines; his hands were finely patrician; his expression was a mingling of dignity, bitterness and deep distrust. Great sorrows must have been the lot of this man, for his face seemed furrowed by torrents of tears. His likeness to Amélie seemed to consist more in what is usually called family resemblance than in physical similitude. The father and daughter were of distinct types and yet it seemed impossible to disjoin them mentally. More and more perplexed, René said to himself, "Where have I seen this man? Where have I seen him and Amélie together?" Chapter IV AMÉLIE Naundorff, seated near the sofa where René rested, had become pensive. René's eyes were fastened querulously upon him. The young man scarcely knew what to say, yet his good breeding impelled him to end the enforced visit. "I have almost recovered. I therefore beg of my kind host permission to depart. I shall take a cab near by in Wellington street and so reach my hotel in twenty minutes. Tomorrow, unless fever seizes me, I shall give myself the pleasure of calling upon you to learn how you fare after our rough experience. There remains now only to inquire whether you deem it advisable to report this assault, Monsieur Naundorff, in order that the scoundrels may receive their just deserts." This very natural query was disquieting to the host, and with contracted lips, he objected: "Make report? No, no. I would suffer everything rather than appeal to human justice. Leave human justice to her caverns, her lairs. I prefer to deal with the malefactors who all but made off with us. At least," he added excitedly in a hoarse voice, "at least they strike blows and dispatch their victims. Oh, deliver me from prolonged martyrdom, from shredding of flesh fibre by fibre Let the end come speedily and then--rest. The justice of God is retributive, infallible."