Part 63 (1/2)
”By a number of little things--by this, for instance,” replied Muller, kicking his heels against the sea-chest; ”by certain words you make use of now and then; by the way you walk; by the way you tie your cravat.
_Que diable_! you look at me as if you took me for a sorcerer!”
The model shook his head.
”I don't understand it,” he said, slowly.
”Nay, I could tell you more than that if I liked,” said Muller, with an air of mystery.
”About myself?”
”Ay, about yourself, and others.”
Guichet, having just lighted his cigar, forgot to put it to his lips.
”What others?” he asked, with a look half of dull bewilderment and half of apprehension.
Muller shrugged his shoulders.
”Pshaw!” said he; ”I know more than you think I know, Guichet. There's our friend, you know--he of whom I made the head t'other day ... you remember?”
The model, still looking at him, made no answer.
”Why didn't you say at once where you had met him, and all the rest of it, _mon vieux_? You might have been sure I should find out for myself, sooner or later.”
The model turned abruptly towards the fire-place, and, leaning his head against the mantel-shelf, stood with his back towards us, looking down into the fire.
”You ask me why I did not tell you at once?” he said, very slowly.
”Ay--why not?”
”Why not? Because--because when a man has begun to lead an honest life, and has gone on leading an honest life, as I have, for years, he is glad to put the past behind him--to forget it, and all belonging to it. How was I to guess you knew anything about--about that place _la bas_?”
”And why should I not know about it?” replied Muller, flas.h.i.+ng a rapid glance at me.
Guichet was silent.
”What if I tell you that I am particularly interested in--that place _la bas_?”
”Well, that may be. People used to come sometimes, I remember--artists and writers, and so on.”
”Naturally.”
”But I don't remember to have ever seen you, M'sieur Muller.”
”You did not observe me, _mon cher_--or it may have been before, or after your time.”
”Yes, that's true,” replied Guichet, ponderingly. ”How long ago was it, M'sieur Muller?”
Muller glanced at me again. His game, hitherto so easy, was beginning to grow difficult.