M. ADOLPHE LECAMUS and Marceline thought M. ThÉophraste’s actions strange, but they were too much occupied with an affair of their own to attach very great importance to them. However, M. ThÉophraste concealed his anxiety and pretended that the visit to the Conciergerie was quite a natural occurrence. He had gone down in the cellars just to satisfy a natural curiosity, not being one of those who make a superficial inspection of things of interest.

The following day, M. ThÉophraste, under the pretext of putting his affairs in order, shut himself up in his office and gave instructions for nobody to disturb him. Leaning over the balcony he looked out upon the little square of Anvers and reflected over the happenings of yesterday. There was nothing in the view to distract him. He was accustomed to the scene below: nurses pushing perambulators gossiping over the latest news, and a few professors walking towards the Rollie College. The Avenue Touraine rang with the shouts of college students who had come before the lecture hour.

Nothing had changed; the world was just the same. To-day, like yesterday, or like the day before yesterday. The people were going to their business just the same. Even Nidine Petito, the wife of the Italian professor, who lived in the apartment below, was the same. She began to play the “Carnival of Venice” on the piano just as she did every day.

Nothing had changed; thus he reflected. On turning round he could see amongst his papers on the desk, the document. Did it really exist? He had passed a restless night and was now attributing his strange adventure to a bad dream-but no, it could not be that, for there was the paper on his desk, in his own handwriting, and written in blood. Good God! perhaps it was his own blood. What thoughts, what thoughts!

ThÉophraste passed his hand over his forehead. He was perspiring and restless. Suddenly breathing a sigh and slapping his thigh with his hand, he appeared to have come to a definite resolution, and put the paper carefully away in his portfolio.

He remembered that Signor Petito, the Italian professor, was an expert in handwriting and that he had had experience in engraving. He would take the document to him and ask his opinion. His friend Adolphe was also interested in graphology, but only in a spiritual way, and so he would not confide in him. There was already too much mystery in the affair without mixing it up with spiritualism and mediums.

He had only known the professor to bow to on the stairs, and so in presenting himself he was introduced. The professor greeted him cordially, and after the usual formalities, ThÉophraste broached the subject of his visit. He produced the paper, and a letter which he had written some time previously. “Signor Petito,” he commenced, “having heard of your renown as an expert in handwriting, I would be grateful to you if you would examine this letter, and this document, and give me the result of your observations. I may say that there is no connection between the two papers.”

ThÉophraste was not in the habit of lying, and blushed redder than a peony. But Signor Petito was already deeply engrossed in the examining of the two papers. His scholarly eye looked over one, then the other. He placed them together, held them up to the light, passed his hand over the writing, and measured them. Then he laughed, showing his white teeth.

“Monsieur Longuet,” said he, “it is not necessary for me to keep you waiting long for a reply. This document is in a very bad condition, but the specimen of handwriting can still be read. They are in every way similar to the letter, and I would swear before any tribunal that those two handwritings have been traced by the same hand.”

Then he entered into details. “A child,” he said, “could not be mistaken about it.” He pointed out how this duplicate writing was identically angular. “We call a handwriting angular, Monsieur, when the hair-strokes which join the bottom of the letters and the separate letters are at an acute angle to the down-strokes of the letters. Do you understand? Compare this hook and that one, those hair-strokes with these others, and all those letters getting larger, larger in both writing and in equal measure. But what a clear writing, Monsieur; I have never seen such clear writing before. As clear as if cut with a knife.”

By this time ThÉophraste had become white with nervousness. Signor Petito thought that he was going to faint. However, he arose, picked up the document and the letter, and having thanked Signor Petito, he went out.

He wandered the streets for a long time, and at last turning down a small street, he stood in front of an old door in the Rue Inger. Entering, he found himself in a narrow, dark passage. A man came out of a back room, and on recognizing ThÉophraste, greeted him in a friendly way. He was wearing a square paper cap, and had on a black gown which reached down to his feet.

“Good-day, ThÉophraste, good-day. What happy chance has brought you here?”

As it had been two years since they had last seen each other they at first spoke of family matters and other generalities. Ambrose spoke of his trade of engraving visiting cards. He had been a printer. He had been a printer in the province, but having put all he had into an invention for a new paper, he had failed. He was a distant cousin to Marceline, and when he was deep in financial troubles, ThÉophraste had come to his rescue.

ThÉophraste seated himself on the wicker chair in the small room which served as a workshop. This room was lighted by a large window reaching from floor to ceiling.

“Ambrose, you are an expert. No one can approach you in the knowledge of papers, eh?” “That is not quite true,” said Ambrose, “but I can judge a good paper.”

“You understand all kinds?”

“All kinds.”

“If some one showed you a piece of paper, could you tell the age of it?”

“Yes,” said Ambrose, “I could. I have published a treatise on the water-marks of papers used in France in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. That study was accepted by the Academy.” “I know, and I have great respect for your knowledge.”

“Well, the thing is simple. The oldest paper showed a plain, glossy surface, but soon there appeared wide lines crossed at intervals by perpendicular lines, both giving the impression of a metal trellis over which the paste had been spread. From the fourteenth century they used these as a maker’s mark, and in the end they designed figures in brass wire, initials, words, emblems of all sorts -these are the water-marks. Every sheet of water-marked paper tells its tale, and the year of its make can be detected, but the difficulty is to decipher it. This necessitates a little practice.” ThÉophraste opened his portfolio and took out the paper.

“Can you tell me the exact date of this?” Ambrose put on his eyeglass and took the paper to the daylight.

“There is the date,” he said, “172—, the last figure is rubbed out. It must be of the eighteenth century.”

“Oh,” said ThÉophraste, “I saw that date quite well, but do you really think that the paper is-of that century? Does not the date lie? That is what I want to know.”

Ambrose showed him the center of the paper. “See?”

ThÉophraste said nothing. Then Ambrose lit a small lamp and held the paper up before it. In illuminating the document one could detect in the thickness of the paper the design of a crown.

“ThÉophraste,” said Ambrose excitedly, “that paper is exceedingly rare. That mark is almost unknown, for a very little paper was made with that sign, which is called the Crown of Thorns. That paper, my dear ThÉophraste, was made in 1721.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes, but tell me,” cried Ambrose, who could not conceal his surprise, “how is it that this document, dated 1721, could be by all visible marks in your handwriting?”

ThÉophraste said nothing, but getting up and putting the document back into the portfolio, he hastened out of the house.

And so here was proof enough. He could doubt it no longer. This paper, dated in the beginning of the eighteenth century, in the time of the Regents, this sheet that he had sought for in the prison, distinctly bore his own handwriting. He had written on that sheet, he, ThÉophraste Longuet, late maker of rubber stamps, who retired last week at the age of 41-he wrote on that sheet of paper these incomprehensible words in 1721. However, it did not want Signor Petito or Ambrose to prove it to him. He knew it himself. Everything within him cried out, “It is your paper!” And so instead of being ThÉophraste Longuet, son of John Longuet, master gardener to the Ferte sous Jonaise, he had been in the past some one he did not know, but who had been reborn in him. Yes, that was it, and he now had the great desire to recall having lived 200 years.

Who was he? What was his name? In which body had his immortal soul elected momentarily to live? He felt certain that these questions would not remain long unanswered. Was it true that some of the things ignored in his present existence constituted part of his past life? What was meant by certain expressions spoken in the Conciergerie? Who, then, was Simon de Anvergust, whose name had been twice repeated by his burning lips?

“Yes, yes, the name, in former times my own, his also,” wrote ThÉophraste in his journal, “arose from my awakened brain, and knowing who I was, I recalled the whole life lived in former years, and I read in a flash from that piece of paper all the details of a past life.”

Monsieur ThÉophraste Longuet, to state the matter frankly, had not arrived at the conclusion without having, in these incoherent lines, wandered before. The happenings of these days were too unusual. Imagine, he was simple-minded, a little heavy, a little foppish, he had never invented anything in his life. He was just an amiable, honest citizen, stupid and headstrong. He had no religion. He left that to the women, and without declaring his atheism, used to say: “When one dies, it is forever.” However, now he had discovered by an extraordinary incident, that one never dies. He had to support this, and in doing so declared that not even those in the business, in occult science, frequenting spirits daily, could have such palpable proof. In the end ThÉophraste made his resolution quickly.

This anterior existence could no longer be denied, although he knew nothing about it. In the uncertainty of his mind he could not associate the date 1721 with his visit to the Conciergerie.

However, he came to this final conclusion. In 1721 he had been confined in the Conciergerie Prison, probably as a prisoner of state. He could not admit for a second that he, ThÉophraste Longuet, had been shut up, even under Louis XV, as a common criminal. In a solemn moment, perhaps before being put to torture, he had drawn up this document and hidden the paper between the stones in the dungeon, and passing by there two centuries later, had found it again. This was simple enough and not the result of any supernatural inspiration. The facts themselves were enough.

Certain words of the document were in themselves quite natural and of the most momentous importance. These were “Treasure... treachery of the first of April.”

It was with these words that he hoped to discover his identity. First, he had been rich and powerful. The words about the treasure showed conclusively that the man had been rich and that he had buried his treasure. He had been powerful and had been betrayed. ThÉophraste had in his mind that the treason had been a memorable treason, perhaps historic-the treachery of the first of April.

Yes, all the oddities and all the mysteries of the document left at least a glimpse of something certain: that he had been a great personage, that he had buried his treasures; and that after having buried them mysteriously, more mysteriously still revealed their existence, at the price of much cunning; perhaps at the price of his own blood. Without doubt those tinted words had been written with blood.

Later he proposed to ask a distinguished chemist to examine it. The treasures belonged to him, and if necessary he would use this document to establish his right to them.

ThÉophraste was not rich. He had retired from business with a modest little income. He had a comfortable little house with a garden and bowling alley. However, this was little, with the somewhat extravagant tastes of Marceline, and so the treasure would be most acceptable. He therefore applied himself diligently to the research.

It must be said, though, to his credit, that he was much more puzzled by the mystery of his personality than by the mystery of the treasure, and that he resolved to temporarily suspend his research until the time when he could at least give a name to this personage that he had been-ThÉophraste Longuet in 1721. That discovery which interested him most came to be in his mind the key of all the others.

That which astonished him most was the sudden development of what he called his “historical instinct,” the instinct which had been deficient in him all his life, but which had been revealed to him with the suddenness and force of a clap of thunder in the depths of the Conciergerie. In one moment, the Other, as he used to say in conversing of this great 18th-century personage, had possessed him. It was the Other who had found the document; it was the Other who had cried out in the Conciergerie; it was the Other who had called to Simon l’Anvergust, and since the Other had disappeared, ThÉophraste did not know what had become of him. He sought him in vain; he examined himself; he searched his very soul.

Before this adventure ThÉophraste had no curiosity about the beginning or ending of things, he had not wasted time in wondering over philosophical mysteries; in his vanity he had always shrugged his shoulders at such things. However, now things were different; here was a quiet citizen, with little scientific knowledge, who had to prove that a manufacturer of India rubber in the year 1899 had been shut up in a dungeon after having buried treasures in 1721. But the revelation of this extraordinary fact had come to him spontaneously and remained so fixed in his mind that he resolved to probe the matter to the bottom.

His instinct abandoned him momentarily and he would search books and discover who this powerful, rich person was who had been betrayed on April 1st; which April 1st? This remained to be determined. He haunted the libraries from that time on. He marshaled before him the Premiers of the Kingdom. He found nothing to give him a clue. Some dukes and peers, some illustrious generals, some great financiers, a few princes of the blood. He stopped an instant at Law, but he was too dissipated; at Maurice de Saxe, who ought to have won the Battle of Fontenoy; at the Count du Barry, who had had the most beautiful mistress in Paris. He feared that perhaps he had been the Count de Charolais, who distinguished himself by his debauches, and killed the thatchers on the roofs by shooting at them. He was forty-eight hours the Cardinal of Palegria, but was disgusted when he learned that his Eminence had been a farm hand for the Duchess of Maine. It was refreshing to find in some corner of history a sympathetic count or lord that the writers of the epoch had adorned in engaging colors and on whom they had bestowed some virtues. But ThÉophraste soon saw that all these would have to be abandoned. For none of them had the principal qualifications of having been shut up in the Conciergerie in 1721, or having been betrayed on an April 1st.

However, in the Journal of the Barber, he discovered a bastard of the Regent, about whom were some startling facts which precipitated him into a state of great excitement.

Before entering into the details, however, of this discovery, we will return to the doings of Marceline and M. Adolphe Lecamus.