“You shall not appear against him, and it shall not be the ruin of you.  Guichet,” said Mueller.  “That I promise you.  Only assure me that what you have said is strictly correct—­that Bras de Fer and Lenoir are one and the same person—­an escaped forcat, condemned for life to the galleys.”

“That’s as true, M’sieur Mueller, as that God is in heaven,” said the model, emphatically.

“Then I can prove it without your testimony—­I can prove it by simply summoning any of the Toulon authorities to identify him.”

“Or by stripping his shirt off his back, and showing the brand on his left shoulder,” said Guichet.  “There you’ll find it, T.F. as large as life—­and if it don’t show at first, just you hit him a sharp blow with the flat of your hand, M’sieur Mueller, and it will start out as red and fresh as if it had been done only six months ago. Parbleu! I remember the day he came in, and the look in his face when the hot iron hissed into his flesh!  They roar like bulls, for the most part; but he never flinched or spoke.  He just turned a shade paler under the tan, and that was all.”

“Do you remember what his crime was?” asked Mueller

Guichet shook his head.

“Not distinctly,” he said.  “I only know that he was in for a good deal, and had a lot of things proved against him on his trial.  But you can find all that out for yourself, easily enough.  He was tried in Paris, about fourteen years ago, and it’s all in print, if you only know where to look for it.”

“Then I’ll find it, if I have to wade through half the Bibliotheque Nationale!” said Mueller.  “Adieu, Guichet—­you have done me a great service, and you may be sure I will do nothing to betray you.  Let us shake hands upon it.”

The color rushed into the model’s swarthy cheeks.

“Comment, M’sieur Mueller!” he said, hesitatingly.  “You offer to shake hands with me—­after what I have told you?”

“Ten times more willing than before, mon ami,” said Mueller.  “Did I not tell you just now that I respected you for having redeemed that past, and shall I not give my hand where I give my respect?”

The model grasped his outstretched hand with a vehemence that made Mueller wince again.

“Thank you,” he said, in a low, deep voice.  “Thank you.  Death of my life!  M’sieur Mueller, I’d go to the galleys again for you, after this—­if you asked me.”

“Agreed.  Only when I do ask you, it shall be to pay a visit of ceremony to Monsieur Bras de Fer, when he is safely lodged again at Toulon with a chain round his leg, and a cannon-ball at the end of it.”

And with this Mueller turned away laughingly, and I followed him down the dimly-lighted stairs.

“By Jove!” he said, “what a grip the fellow gave me!  I’d as soon shake hands with the Commendatore in Don Giovanni.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.