"Who is it?"
"Achille, M. le Marquise!" responded the worthy with alacrity.
"I want nothing," said the voice. "Tell Durand that I shall not need him to-night."
M. Durand nearly dropped his heavy books on the floor.
"Not want me!" he ejaculated; "we shall get terribly in arrears!"
"Will milor go to bed?" again queried M. Achille.
"No!" came somewhat impatiently from within. "Do not wait up for me. If I want you later I will ring."
Achille looked at M. Durand and the worthy Baptiste returned the look of puzzlement and wonder. Both shrugged their shoulders.
"There's nothing to be done, my good Baptiste," said Achille at last; "you had best take your paraphernalia away and go to bed. I know that tone of voice, I have heard it once before when . . . but never mind that," he added abruptly checking himself, as if he feared to commit an indiscretion, "enough that I know if milor says, in that tone of voice, that he does not want you and that you are to go away—well then, my good Durand, he does not want you and you are to go away. . . . Do you see?"
And having delivered himself of this phrase of unanswerable logic he pointed toward the door.