Chon had not been many minutes scanning the Taverney lady, when Viscount Jean, racing up the stairs four at a time like a schoolboy, appeared on the threshold of the pretended widow's room.
"Hurrah, Jean, I am placed splendidly to see what goes on, but I am unfortunate about hearing."
"You ask too much. Oh, I say, I have a bit of news, marvelous and incomparable. Those philosophic fellows say a wise man ought to be ready for anything, but I cannot be wise, for this knocked me. I give you a hundred chances to guess who I ran up against at a public fountain at the corner; he was sopping a piece of bread in the gush, and it was—our philosopher."
"Who? Gilbert?"
"The very boy, with bare head, open waistcoat, stockings ungartered, shoes without buckles, in short, just as he turned out of bed."
"Then he lives by here? Did you speak to him?"
"We recognized one another, and when I thrust out my hand, he bolted like a harrier among the crowd, so that I lost sight of him. You don't think I was going to run after him, do you?"
"Hardly, but then you have lost him."
"What a pity!" said the girl Sylvie, whom Chon had brought along as her maid.
"Yes, certainly," said Jean; "I owe him a hundred stripes with a whip, and they would not have spoilt by keeping any longer had I got a grip of his collar; but he guessed my good intentions and fled. No matter, here he is in town; and when one has the ear of the chief of police, anybody can be found."