He dashed open a glazed door to lead him into the lobby, when the act made a knave who was standing on the knob to peer into the hall, drop to the ground.
“Plague on the rogue,” said the duke; brushing his sleeve, for the shock of the drop had dusted him. He saw that the spy was clad like one of the working people about the Palace.
It was a gardener’s help, in fact, for he had a basket of flowers on his arm. He had saved himself from falling but spilt the flowers.
“Why, I know the rogue,” said Taverney, “he was born on my estate. What are you doing here, rascal?”
“You see, I am looking on,” replied Gilbert proudly.
“Better finish your work.”
“My work is done,” replied the young man humbly to the duke, without deigning to reply to the baron.
“I run up against this idle vagabond everywhere,” grumbled the latter.
“Here, here, my lord,” gently interrupted a voice; “my little Gilbert is a good workman and a most earnest botanist.”
Taverney turned and saw Dr. Jussieu stroking the cheek of his ex-dependent. He turned red with rage and went off.