“I know a great many things, my dear M. Maxence,” he replied; “and
yet, as I do not wish to be suspected of witchcraft, I will tell
you where all my science comes from. At the time when your house
was closed to me, after seeking for a long time some means of
hearing from your sister, I discovered at last that she had for
her music-teacher an old Italian, the Signor Gismondo Pulei. I
applied to him for lessons, and became his pupil. But, in the
beginning, he kept looking at me with singular persistence. I
inquired the reason; and he told me that he had once had for a
neighbor, at the Batignolles, a young working-girl, who resembled
me prodigiously. I paid no attention to this circumstance, and
had, in fact, completely forgotten it; when, quite lately, Gismondo
told me that he had just seen his former neighbor again, and, what’s
more, arm in arm with you, and that you both entered together the
Hotel des Folies. As he insisted again upon that famous resemblance,
I determined to see for myself. I watched, and I stated, _de visa_,
that my old Italian was not quite wrong, and that I had, perhaps,
just found the weapon I was looking for.”
His eyes staring, and his mouth gaping, Maxence looked like a man
fallen from the clouds.
“Ah, you did watch!” he said.