"The police?" and Madame Gabrielle cast a rapid mental glance over their affairs. "Well, admit them; we have no reason to fear the police."
"There is that little matter of the wine from your nephew which did not pay the octroi," Brisson reminded her.
"Bah!" retorted Madame, who was by far the stronger spirit; "it cannot be that! No one could suspect that; besides, even if they did, they would not come hammering here in the middle of the night. Descend at once and admit them. Assume a bold front, Brisson! Do not let them suspect that you have fear! Go at once! Hasten! I will come as soon as I have found a petticoat."
Thus encouraged, Brisson descended and opened the door, holding a lighted candle above his head and presenting as bold a front as his not-too-courageous spirit could muster. The three men crowded past him, without waiting for an invitation or saying a word, and one of them took the door from his hand and closed and bolted it. The horrible thought flashed through Brisson's head that they were robbers, bandits, and he had opened his mouth to cry for help, when one of them, the little, lean, grey-bearded one, with the fierce eyes, spoke.
"We belong to the police," he said. "We desire a few moments' conversation with you."
"Certainly, sir," stammered Brisson, thinking, as he met those eyes, that perhaps he would have preferred the bandits. "Come this way, if you please, sirs," and he led the way into his bureau.
He placed the candle on the table and dropped into a chair. His visitors remained standing, facing him. Brisson realised that for him to sit while they stood was anything but courteous, and he struggled to arise, but the strength seemed departed from his legs, and he sank helplessly back again.
"What is your name?" asked the little man, looking at him with those gimlet eyes.
"Aristide Brisson, sir."
"You have been long in this house?"