"Hum ... Hum...."
And M. Bichet seemed to be thinking over something to himself.
"Good!..." he said, after a moment's silence.
"Then, monsieur, you have nothing more to say to me at present?"
"Nothing."
"Of course I shall be at my desk, and if you want me...."
"Certainly; you can go."
I resumed my seat with delight. Except for losing Lassagne and Ernest, my disgrace resolved itself into a privilege. The office-boy warned me that if I arrived before eleven o'clock, I should not find him there, and if I stayed past four he would lock me in when he went. So, no more portfolios to make up, all my evenings to myself, and a chief who did not prevent me from writing tragedies! And, forthwith, I set to work on Christine. I cannot say how long I had been working when the office-boy came to tell me that M. Bichet wanted me in his office. I went in at once. M. Bichet was not alone this time; on his right stood a short old man, and on his left a tall old man. As they stood there, the three judges, before whom I seemed about to be arraigned, looked not unlike Minis, Æacus and Rhadamanthus. I bowed, feeling considerably surprised.
"See, there he is," said M. Bichet. "Upon my word, his handwriting is beautiful, it is exactly like Piron's, and he has done fifteen days' work in three."
"What did you tell me monsieur did besides?" asked the tall old man.