The three of us could hide
comfortably behind the velvet chimney-mantle, and observe all that
should happen in the room. We seated ourselves there, with Madame
Andermatt in the centre.
The clock struck nine. A few minutes later, the garden gate
creaked upon its hinges. I confess that I was greatly agitated. I
was about to learn the key to the mystery. The startling events of
the last few weeks were about to be explained, and, under my eyes,
the last battle was going to be fought. Daspry seized the hand of
Madame Andermatt, and said to her:
"Not a word, not a movement! Whatever you may see or hear, keep
quiet!"
Some one entered. It was Alfred Varin. I recognized him at once,
owing to the close resemblance he bore to his brother Etienne.
There was the same slouching gait; the same cadaverous face covered
with a black beard.
He entered with the nervous air of a man who is accustomed to fear
the presence of traps and ambushes; who scents and avoids them. He
glanced about the room, and I had the impression that the chimney,
masked with a velvet portiere, did not please him. He took three
steps in our direction, when something caused him to turn and walk
toward the old mosaic king, with the flowing beard and flamboyant
sword, which he examined minutely, mounting on a chair and
following with his fingers the outlines of the shoulders and head
and feeling certain parts of the face.
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