“And here is the way. Now mind!”
A heavy step was heard shaking the stairs; and almost immediately a gendarme appeared, who in one hand held a violin, and with the other aided a poor creature, who seemed unable to walk alone.
“Goudar!” was on M. Folgat’s lips.
It was Goudar, really, but in what a state! His clothes muddy, and torn, pale, with haggard eyes, his beard and his lips covered with a white foam.
“The story is this,” said the gendarme. “This individual was playing the fiddle in the court of the barrack, and we were looking out of the window, when all of a sudden he fell on the ground, rolled about, twisted and writhed, while he uttered fearful howls, and foamed like a mad dog. We picked him up; and I bring him to you.”
“Leave us alone with him,” said the physician.
The gendarme went out; and, as soon as the door was shut, Goudar cried with a voice full of intense disgust,—
“What a profession! Just look at me! What a disgrace if my wife should see me in this state! Phew!”
And, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his face, and drew from his mouth a small piece of soap.
“But the point is,” said the doctor, “that you have played the epileptic so well, that the gendarmes have been taken in.”