“It is signed Puck.  That is not a name.”

“A pseudonym is a name in literature,” said Fremin.  “I am of the opinion, however, that one has always the right to demand to see a face which is covered by a mask.  But the person who makes this demand should be personally interested.  Does this story, to which you have called my attention, concern you, Monsieur?”

“Suppose, Monsieur,” answered Zilah, a little disconcerted, for he perceived that he had to do with a courteous, well-bred man, “suppose that the man who is mentioned, or rather insulted, here, were my best friend.  I wish to demand an explanation of the person who wrote this article, and to know, also, if it was really a journalist who composed those lines.”

“You mean?—­”

“I mean that there may be people interested in having such an article published, and I wish to know who they are.”

“You are perfectly justified, Monsieur; but only one person can tell you that—­the writer of the article.”

“It is for that reason, Monsieur, that I desire to know his name.”

“He does not conceal it,” said Fremin.  “The pseudonym is only designed as a stimulant to curiosity; but Puck is a corporeal being.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Zilah.  “Now, will you be kind enough to give me his name?”

“Paul Jacquemin.”

Zilah knew the name well, having seen it at the end of a report of his river fete; but he hardly thought Jacquemin could be so well informed.  Since he had lived in France, the Hungarian exile had not been accustomed to regard Paris as a sort of gossiping village, where everything is found out, talked over, and commented upon with eager curiosity, and where every one’s aim is to appear to have the best and most correct information.

“I must ask you now, Monsieur, where Monsieur Paul Jacquemin lives?”

“Rue Rochechouart, at the corner of the Rue de la Tour d’Auvergne.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” said Andras, rising, the object of his call having been accomplished.

“One moment,” said Fremin, “if you intend to go at once to Monsieur Jacquemin’s house, you will not find him at home just now.”

“Why not?”

“Because you saw him here a few minutes ago, and he is now on his way to Enghien.”

“Indeed!” said the Prince.  “Very well, I will wait.”

He bade farewell to Fremin, who accompanied him to the door; and, when seated in his carriage, he read again the paragraph of Puck—­that Puck, who, in the course of the same article, referred many times to the brilliancy of “our colleague Jacquemin,” and complacently cited the witticisms of “our clever friend Jacquemin.”