But though the danger was warded off for the while, it might return and destroy him at any moment.

Gaston would wait a week for an answer, then he would write again; Lafourcade would instantly reply to express surprise that his first letter had not been received; all of this correspondence would occupy about twelve days.  In those twelve days Louis would have to think over some plan for preventing Lafourcade’s visit to Paris; since, the instant he mentioned the name of Clameran to the banker, everything would be discovered.

Louis’s meditations were interrupted by Gaston, who called from the lower passage: 

“What are you doing, Louis?  I am waiting for you.”

“I am coming now,” he replied.

Hastily thrusting Lafourcade’s letter into his trunk, Louis ran down to his brother.

He had made up his mind to borrow a large sum from Gaston, and go off to
America; and Raoul might get out of the scrape as best he could.

The only thing which now disturbed him was the sudden failure of the most skilful combination he had ever conceived; but he was not a man to fight against destiny, and determined to make the best of the emergency, and hope for better fortune in his next scheme.

The next day about dusk, while walking along the pretty road leading from the foundery to Oloron, he commenced a little story which was to conclude by asking Gaston to lend him two hundred thousand francs.

As they slowly went along arm in arm, about half a mile from the foundery they met a young laborer who bowed as he passed them.

Louis dropped his brother’s arm, and started back as if he had seen a ghost.

“What is the matter?” asked Gaston, with astonishment.

“Nothing, except I struck my foot against a stone, and it is very painful.”

Gaston might have known by the tremulous tones of Louis’s voice that this was a lie.  Louis de Clameran had reason to tremble; in this workman he recognized Raoul de Lagors.

Instinctive fear paralyzed and overwhelmed him.

The story he had planned for the purpose of obtaining the two hundred thousand francs was forgotten; his volubility was gone; and he silently walked along by his brother’s side, like an automaton, totally incapable of thinking or acting for himself.

He seemed to listen, he did listen; but the words fell upon his ear unmeaningly; he could not understand what Gaston was saying, and mechanically answered “yes” or “no,” like one in a dream.

Whilst necessity, absolute necessity, kept him here at Gaston’s side, his thoughts were all with the young man who had just passed by.

What had brought Raoul to Oloron?  What plot was he hatching?  Why was he disguised as a laborer?  Why had he not answered the many letters which Louis had written him from Oloron?  He had ascribed this silence to Raoul’s carelessness, but now he saw it was premeditated.  Something disastrous must have happened at Paris; and Raoul, afraid to commit himself by writing, had come himself to bring the bad news.  Had he come to say that the game was up, and they must fly?