She opened the door, and showed the way to the man who appeared to her an object of mingled dread and hate. CHAPTER III BAUDOIN had just finished arranging everything in the summer-house where Marcel lived, when he heard his name called by the concierge of the works. On showing himself at the window, the concierge bowed with deference, and said— “M. Baudoin, some one wishes to speak to you at the gate.” “Good; I will be down in a moment.” It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and, as Marcel had just set out in the direction of the woods, Baudoin was alone in the house. He had just placed the furniture in order, and now, after closing the window, he took off his apron, and went out into the courtyard. On reaching the entrance to the works, he saw standing in the street a ruddy-faced man, with untrimmed beard, dressed like a workman, and wearing a pair of large rough shoes. The concierge disdainfully pointed out the man, and said— “There he is!” At the same moment the man turned round, and, seeing Baudoin, came up with smiling face and extended hands. Baudoin, astonished, watched him draw near, ransacking his memory, but unable to call to mind if he had ever seen him before. He said to himself, “Who the deuce can it be? Some one who has made a mistake!” On coming close up to him, the man said— “Good day, M. Baudoin.” Then Baudoin recognized Laforêt. Taking him by the arm, he conducted him along the garden wall in the direction of the main road; then, sure that he would be out of the hearing of any one, he said—. “So you are here at last! What a perfect disguise! I had no idea who you were till you spoke.” “We must not remain in the open air, for no one must see us together. Is there no small inn where we can talk?” “Certainly; come with me to the Soleil d’Or. I know the landlord; he will let us have a small room to ourselves, where we shall not be disturbed. He is an old soldier, and to be relied upon.” “Very good!” Seated before a bottle of beer, the two men began their confidential talk— “It was quite time you came,” said Baudoin. “There is something new at last. M. Marcel’s solitude has been broken in upon by two strangers, who pass as brother and sister, jabber away in Italian, and who, from the very first week of their stay here, have found means of entering into friendly relations with my master.” “What kind of a woman is she?” “Ah, unless I am mistaken, she is a very cunning woman, like the one who called to see my poor General, and tricked him so cleverly.” “And the man?” “A foreigner. His first appearance. He calls himself a count, but he is probably a mere fortune-hunter. A handsome-looking fellow, though I have only seen him at a distance.” “And the sister?” “A splendid woman! Light-complexioned, with hair arranged in Madonna fashion. The most innocent, harmless-looking creature imaginable! In deep mourning, reminding one of ‘Mignon’ bewailing her country. What is her object in coming here just at this time?”