"Yes, monsieur, for my resolution is taken, taken irrevocably. It would not be just, by Heaven, that I should bear the punishment for a crime which I never committed. I owe it to society, to my ward, to myself. M. Ducoudray, if the curator asks for me, you will tell him that I am gone out on pressing business."
And Buvat drew the roll of paper from the drawer, pressed his hat on to his head, took his stick, and went out with the majesty of despair.
"Do you know where he has gone?" asked the employé.
"No," answered Ducoudray.
"I will tell you;—to play at bowls at the Champs-Elysées, or at Porcherons."
The employé was wrong; he had neither gone to the Champs-Elysées nor to Porcherons. He had gone to Dubois.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE FOX AND THE GOOSE.
"M. Jean Buvat," said the usher. Dubois stretched out his viper's head, darted a look at the opening which was left between the usher and the door, and, behind the official introducer, perceived a little fat man, pale, and whose legs shook under him, and who coughed to give himself assurance. A glance sufficed to inform Dubois the sort of person he had to deal with.
"Let him come in," said Dubois.