“Can you tell me the gentleman’s name, to whom Madame said all this?” asked he.
“Not I. The others called him ‘The painter.’”
This explanation did not satisfy Mascarin.
“Look here, my good girl,” said he, “try and find out the fellow’s name. I think he is an artist who owes me money.”
“All right! Rely on me; and now I must be off, for I have breakfast to get ready, but I’ll call again to-morrow;” and with a curtsy she left the room.
Mascarin struck his hand heavily on the table.
“Hortebise has a wonderful nose for sniffing out danger,” said he. “This Rose and the young fool who is ruining himself for her must both be suppressed.”
Beaumarchef again made a motion of executing a thrust with the rapier.
“Pooh, pooh!” answered his master; “don’t be childish. I can do better than that. Rose calls herself nineteen, but she is more, she is of age, while Gandelu is still a minor. If old Gandelu had any pluck, he would put Article 354 in motion.”
“Eh, sir?” said Beaumarchef, much mystified.