When closely pressed he would vaguely say: "Accounts!" which of course was ridiculous. Monsieur Achille had never heard of a nobleman troubling himself about accounts, at the time when most people of consideration were either at petits soupers or else comfortably in bed.
As time went on Monsieur Achille ceased to take any interest in these nightly proceedings; they were so monotonous and so regular, that they were no longer exciting. But to-night everything seemed changed. M. Durand instead of marching straight through with his books into the study, stood in the middle of the room, a veritable picture of helpless perturbation.
"Why, M. Durand," said Achille greatly astonished, "what ails you? You look as if you had seen a ghost."
"Sh!—-sh!—-sh!" whispered the timorous little man, indicating with a jerk of his lean shoulder the distant door of the study, "do you hear that?"
Monsieur Achille bent his ear to listen. But strive how he might he could hear nothing but the great bracket-clock on the wall ticking monotonously. He shrugged his shoulders to indicate that the worthy Baptiste had been dreaming, but there was a certain look in the wizened face which caused him to tiptoe toward the study door and once more to bring his ear down to the level of the keyhole.
Then he shook his head, and tiptoed back to the centre of the room.
"I can hear nothing," he whispered. "Are you sure he is in there?"
"Quite, quite sure," replied Durand.
"Then why don't you go in as usual?"
"I . . . I can't!"