very young, blond-haired child. His age belonged in that uncertain area
which may range from twenty-five to forty. He wore a white cravat,
spotless as snow; and two triangles of short, thick beard, cut like the
boxwood at Versailles, ornamented his cheeks. If Camors saw this
personage he did not honor him with the slightest notice. He was,
notwithstanding, his former comrade Lescande, who had been lost sight of
for several years by his warmest college friend. Lescande, however,
whose memory seemed better, felt his heart leap with joy at the majestic
appearance of the young cavalier who approached him. He made a movement
to rush forward; a smile covered his good-natured face, but it ended in
a grimace. Evidently he had been forgotten. Camors, now not more than
a couple of feet from him, was passing on, and his handsome countenance
gave not the slightest sign of emotion. Suddenly, without changing
a single line of his face, he drew rein, took the cigar from his lips,
and said, in a tranquil voice:

"Hello! You have no longer a wolf head!"

"Ha! Then you know me?" cried Lescande.

"Know you? Why not?"

"I thought--I was afraid--on account of my beard--"

"Bah! your beard does not change you--except that it becomes you.
But what are you doing here?"

"Doing here! Why, my dear friend, I am at home here. Dismount, I pray
you, and come into my house."