“I shall stay here for a few days longer; we must accustom ourselves to parting. I want recommendations and some information relative to Africa. I will join you again at Marseilles.”
“Well, be it so—let us part,” said Mercédès, folding around her shoulders the only shawl she had taken away, and which accidentally happened to be a valuable black cashmere. Albert gathered up his papers hastily, rang the bell to pay the thirty francs he owed to the landlord, and offering his arm to his mother, they descended the stairs.
Someone was walking down before them, and this person, hearing the rustling of a silk dress, turned around.
“Debray!” muttered Albert.
“You, Morcerf?” replied the secretary, resting on the stairs.
Curiosity had vanquished the desire of preserving his incognito, and he was recognized. It was, indeed, strange in this unknown spot to find the young man whose misfortunes had made so much noise in Paris.
“Morcerf!” repeated Debray. Then noticing in the dim light the still youthful and veiled figure of Madame de Morcerf:
“Pardon me,” he added with a smile, “I leave you, Albert.”
Albert understood his thoughts.
“Mother,” he said, turning towards Mercédès, “this is M. Debray, secretary of the Minister for the Interior, once a friend of mine.”
“How once?” stammered Debray; “what do you mean?”
“I say so, M. Debray, because I have no friends now, and I ought not to have any. I thank you for having recognized me, sir.”