"What would become of them without me?" Lecazes asked himself, on the successful termination of a coup. "It is often necessary to act without consulting. There are questions which must not be asked. I am the contriver. I direct the play and they are the audience. Much cause for congratulation is it if I can prevent them and their vengeful partisans of the south from spoiling the plot."
The baron's reflections were not those of one who seeks a path amid thorns and thistles. They had, rather, to do with the balancing of probabilities and the best way to carry out his purpose. Suddenly he began to arrange the documents, some of which he tied together. After extracting and reading a letter over and over, he placed that important paper in his pocket-book.
A project of much consequence agitated his mind, for his hand shook nervously as he took up his pen, and deep furrows lined his brow. Two clocks, standing upon artistic brackets at his right and left respectively, joined their crystalline voices in musical precision. It was two o'clock in the afternoon—time to stop reflecting and go to acting. He struck the bell and inquired of the attendant, who immediately appeared:
"What person waits?"
"Professor Beauliège is in the anteroom."
"Show him in."
A moment later there appeared a man who was a type of the literary-scientific proletariat, such as may always be found in Parisian bookstores, lingering before shelves containing antique works marked at extravagant prices. A greasy looking hat, uncombed hair, coat collar soiled with dandruff, tattered gloves pierced by dirty fingernails, a faded portfolio (apparently full of manuscripts) beneath his arm; a shaven face with a peaked nose and myopic eyes which seemed to peer through a dusty web—such were the unpleasing features of Monsieur Beauliège's exterior.
The baron, scarcely looking up, motioned him to a seat. Active and practical himself, he professed for litterateurs a disdain which he made no effort to conceal.
"How does the book come on?" he asked.
"Monsieur le Baron," faltered the poor old fellow, "I make little advance because, as you are well aware, I absolutely lack basis. I have no corroborating documents for establishing the boy's demise. I am in ignorance of what transpired during the latter part of his imprisonment and my labor is most arduous since, thanks to the spirit of the age, history seems to be taking on new methods and insisting on indisputable evidences. When I received your summons, I jumped for joy, for I thought you had important documents to entrust to me."