As soon as they were in his presence, Henri could not restrain a start of surprise, for he recognized Constantin Lenaieff, one of his adversaries on the fatal night of the Freres-Provencaux.

“Who are you?” demanded the Major, brusquely.

“A dealer in Belgian cattle, purveyor to the German intendant,” hazarded the prisoner, who had his reply all prepared.

“You—­nonsense!  You are a French officer; that is plain enough to be seen, in spite of your disguise.”

The Major advanced a step in order to examine the prisoner more closely.

“Good heavens!” he muttered, “I can not be mistaken—­”

He made a sign to his soldiers to retire, then, turning to Henri, he said: 

“You are the Marquis de Prerolles!” and he extended his hand cordially to the former companion of his pleasures.

In a few words Henri explained to him the situation.

“My fate is in your hands,” he concluded.  “Decide it!”

“You are too good a player at this game not to win it,” Lenaieff replied, “and I am not a Paul Landry, to dispute it with you.  Here is a letter of safe-conduct made out in due form; write upon it any name you choose.  As for myself, I regard you absolutely as a Belgian citizen, and I shall make no report of this occurrence.  Only, let me warn you, as a matter of prudence, you would do well not to linger in this territory, and if you need money—­”

“I thank you!” replied the nobleman, quickly, declining with his customary proud courtesy.  “But I never shall forget the service you have rendered me!”

A few moments later, the two travellers drove away in a carriage toward the nearest railway, in order to reenter France by way of Vienna and Turin.

They passed the Austrian and Italian frontiers without difficulty; but at the station at Modena a too-zealous detective of the French police, struck with the Alsatian accent of the orderly, immediately decided that they were two Prussian spies, and refused to allow them to proceed, since they could show him no passports.

“Passports!” cried Henri de Prerolles, accompanying his exclamation with the most Parisian oath that ever had reverberated from the Rue Laffitte to the Madeleine.

“Here is my passport!” he added, drawing from his pocket his officer’s cross, which he had taken good care not to allow to become a souvenir in the hands of his jailer.  “And if that does not satisfy you, give me a pen.”

Suiting the action to the word, he seized a pen and wrote out the following telegram: 

   “Deputy of war, Tours: 

   “Escaped from prisons of the enemy, I demand admittance to France,
   and official duties suitable to my rank, that I may cooperate in the
   national defence.

“De Prerolles, Commandant.”

He handed the paper to the police agent, saying:  “Do me the favor to forward this despatch with the utmost expedition.”