Suddenly Beaumarchef, evidently much excited, appeared upon the threshold.
“What, you here again!” cried Mascarin, angrily; “am I to have no peace to-day?”
“Sir, the young man is here.”
“What young man? Paul Violaine?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why, I told him not to come until twelve; something must have gone wrong.” He broke off his speech, for at the half-open door stood Paul. He was very pale, and his eyes had the expression of some hunted creature. His attire was in disorder and betokened a night spent in aimless wanderings to and fro.
“Ah, sir!” said he, as he caught sight of Mascarin.
“Leave us, Beaumarchef,” said the latter, with an imperious wave of his hand; “and now, my dear boy, what is it?”
Paul sank into a chair.
“My life is ended,” said he; “I am lost, dishonored for ever.”