M. Gevrol rubbed his nose, put out his lower lip, and said, “Ah,—hem!”
He pretended to hesitate; but it was only because he enjoyed prolonging the old amateur’s discomfiture.
“Come,” said he at last, “cheer up, old Tirauclair. I’m a good fellow at heart, and I’ll give you a lift. That’s kind, isn’t it? But, to-day, I’m too busy, I’ve an appointment to keep. Come to me to-morrow morning, and we’ll talk it over. But before we part I’ll give you a light to find your way with. Do you know who that witness is that I’ve brought?”
“No; but tell me, my good M. Gevrol.”
“Well, that fellow on the bench there, who is waiting for M. Daburon, is the husband of the victim of the La Jonchere tragedy!”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed old Tabaret, perfectly astounded. Then, after reflecting a moment, he added, “You are joking with me.”
“No, upon my word. Go and ask him his name; he will tell you that it is Pierre Lerouge.”
“She wasn’t a widow then?”
“It appears not,” replied Gevrol sarcastically, “since there is her happy spouse.”
“Whew!” muttered the old fellow. “And does he know anything?”