"Principles are a matter of belief,—political principles. You change your belief,—the principles go with it; you can't desert 'em,—they follow you. It is the rest of them, those who disagree with you, who never have any principles. Is it not so, monsieur?"
He laughed the more as he saw that she was serious. And yet there was a nipping satire in her words that tickled his fancy.
A gentle knock at the door interrupted this political argument. A peculiar, diffident, apologetic knock, like the forerunner of the man come to borrow money. There was a red bell-cord hanging outside, too, but the rap came from somebody too timid to make a noise.
Mlle. Fouchette started up as if it were the signal for execution. She turned pale, and placed her finger on her lips. Then, with a significant glance at Jean, she gathered herself together and tiptoed to a closet in the wall.
She entered the closet and closed the door softly upon herself.
Jean had regarded her with surprise, then with astonishment. He saw no reason for this singular development of timidity. As soon as he had recovered sufficiently he opened the door.
A tall, thin man quietly stepped into the room, as quietly shut the door behind him, and addressed the young man briskly,—
"Monsieur Marot?"
"Yes, monsieur, at your service."
"So."