Something like a discussion was heard in the hall,—a voice hoarse with anger, and the servant’s voice.
“Go and see who’s there,” said Gilberte to her brother.
It was useless; the servant appeared.
“It’s M. Bertan,” she commenced, “the baker—” He had followed her, and, pushing her aside with his robust arm, he appeared himself. He was a man about forty years of age, tall, thin, already bald, and wearing his beard trimmed close.
“M. Favoral?” he inquired.
“My father is not at home,” replied Maxence.
“It’s true, then, what I have just been told?”
“What?”
“That the police came to arrest him, and he escaped through a window.”
“It’s true,” replied Maxence gently.