he station. On the way, he was glancing into the
shop windows, when he stopped short before a stationer's, and rubbed his
eyes--a sovereign remedy, people say, for impaired vision. Between the
portraits of Mme. Sand and M. Merimee, the two greatest writers of
France, he had noticed, examined, recognized a well-known countenance.

"Surely," said he, "I've seen that man before, but he was paler. Can our
old lodger have come to life? Impossible! I burned up my uncle's
directions, so the world has lost--thanks to me--the secret of
resuscitating people. Nevertheless, the resemblance is striking. Is it a
portrait of Colonel Fougas, taken from life in 1813? No; for photography
was not then invented. But possibly it's a photograph copied from an
engraving? Here are Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette reproduced in the
same way: that doesn't prove that Robespierre had them resuscitated.
Anyhow, I've had an unfortunate encounter."

He took a step toward the door of the shop to reassure himself, but a
peculiar reluctance held him back. People might wonder at him, ask him
questions, try to learn the reason of his trouble. He resumed his walk
at a brisk pace, trying to reassure himself.

"Bah! It's an hallucination--the result of dwelling too much on one
idea. Moreover, the portrait was dressed in the style of 1813; that
settles the question."

He reached the station, had his black leather trunk checked, and flung
himself down at full length in a first-class compartment. First he
smoked his porcelain pipe, but his two neighbors being asleep, he soon
followed their example, and began snoring. Now this big man's snores had
something awe-inspiring about them; you could have fancied yourself
listening to the trumpets of the judgment day. What shade visited him in
this hour of sleep, no other soul has ever known; for he kept his dreams
to himself, as he did everything that was his.

But between two stations, while the train was running at full speed, he
distinctly felt two powerful hands pulling at his feet--a sensation,
alas! too well known, and one which called up the ugliest recollections
of his life. He opened his eyes in terror, and saw the man of the
photograph, in the costume of the photograph. His hair stood on end, his
eyes grew as big as saucers, he uttered a loud cry, and flung himself
headlong between the seats among the legs of his neighbors.

A few vigorous kicks brought him to himself. He got up as well as he
could, and