“Very good, Monsieur Octave,” resumed she as serenely as ever. “I will settle with you directly. However, the firm will regret you, for you were a good assistant.”
Once out in the street, Octave perceived that he had behaved like a fool. Four o’clock was striking, the gay spring sun covered with a sheet of gold a whole corner of the Place Gaillon. And, angry with himself, he wandered at hap-hazard down the Rue Saint-Roch, discussing the way in which he ought to have acted. He would go and see if Campardon happened to be in the church, and take him to the café to have a glass of Madeira. It would help to divert his thoughts. He entered by the vestibule into which the vestry door opened, a dark, dirty passage such as is to be met with in houses of ill-repute.
“You are perhaps looking for Monsieur Campardon?” said a voice close beside him, as he stood hesitating, scrutinizing the nave with his glance.
It was the Abbé Mauduit, who had just recognized him. The architect being away, he insisted on showing the works, about which he was most enthusiastic, to the young man.
“Walk in,” said the Abbé Mauduit, gathering up his cassock. “I will explain everything to you.”
“Here we are,” continued the priest. “I had the idea of lighting the central group of the Calvary from above by means of an opening in the cupola. You can fancy what an effect it will have.”
“Yes, yes,” murmured. Octave, whose thoughts were diverted by this stroll amidst building materials.
The Abbé Mauduit, speaking in a loud voice, had the air of a stage-carpenter directing the placing of some gorgeous scenery.
And he turned round to call out to a workman:
“Move the Virgin on one side; you will be breaking her leg directly.”