"Upon my word, sir—"
"Oh, I had my business too. But for the moment listen to something that concerns you. The Count is not yet thirty, his eyes are large and dreamy, his hair long, he wears no moustache, his manner is melancholy, there is no air of bravado about him. Do I occasion you surprise?"
Paul de Roustache swore heartily.
"Then," he ended, "all I can say is that I should like ten minutes alone with the fellow who made a fool of me last night, whoever he is."
Again Guillaume—as he wished to be called—touched his companion's arm.
"I too have a matter to discuss with that gentleman," he said. Paul looked surprised. "M. de Roustache," Guillaume continued with an insinuating smile, "is not ignorant of recent events; he moves in the world of affairs. I think we might help one another. And there is no harm in being popular with the—with—er—my department, instead of being—well, rather unpopular, eh, my dear M. de Roustache?"
Paul did not contest this insinuation nor show any indignation at it; the wink which accompanied it he had the self-respect to ignore.
"What do you want from him?" he asked, discerning Guillaume's point, and making straight for it.
"Merely some papers he has."
"What do you want the papers for?"