“What did you say?”      

       “Nothing; a little reflection I was making to myself. Do you know this young lady’s name?”      

       “It’s Marguerite.”      

       The woman’s face clouded. “No; it can’t be then,” she muttered, in a scarcely audible voice.     

       M. Fortunat was on coals of fire. It was evident that this frightful creature, even if she knew nothing definite, had some idea, some vague suspicion of the truth. How could he compel her to speak now that she was on her guard? He had not time to ascertain, for the door suddenly opened, and Vantrasson appeared on the threshold. He was scarcely sober when he left the shop, but now he was fairly drunk; his heavy shamble had become a stagger. “Oh, you wretch, you brigand!” howled his wife; “you’ve been drinking again!”      

       He succeeded in maintaining his equilibrium, and, gazing at her with the phlegmatic stare peculiar to intoxicated men, he replied: “Well, what of that! Can’t I have a little pleasure with my friends? I came across a couple of men who were just taking their fifteenth glass; why should I refuse a compliment?”      

       “You can’t hold yourself up.”      

       “That’s true.” And to prove it he tumbled on to a chair.     

       A torrent of abuse now flowed from Madame Vantrasson’s lips! M. Fortunat only imperfectly distinguished the words “thief,” “spy,” and “detective;”        but he could not mistake the meaning of the looks which she alternately gave her husband and himself. “It’s a fortunate thing for you that my husband is in this condition,” her glances plainly implied, “otherwise       there would be an explanation, and then we should see—”      

       “I’ve had a lucky escape,” thought the spurious clerk. But as matters stood there was nothing to fear. It was a case where one could show a brave front to the enemy without incurring the slightest danger. “Let your husband alone,” said he. “If he has only brought the paper that he was sent to fetch, I sha’n’t have lost my evening to oblige you.”      

       Vantrasson had brought not one sheet of stamped paper, but two. A bad pen and some muddy ink were produced, and M. Fortunat began to draw 

 Prev. P 41/289 next