Another pause ensued, whilst the cab swayed in a melancholy fashion.
“I told you Rue Saint-Lazare,” called out the uncle to the driver. “It isn’t at Chaillot. Turn to the left.”
At length the cab stopped. Out of prudence they sent up for Trublot, who came down bareheaded to talk to them in the doorway.
“You know Clarisse’s address?” asked Bachelard.
“Clarisse’s address?”
“Why, of course! Rue d’Assas.”
They thanked him, and were about to re-enter their cab, when Auguste asked in his turn:
“What’s the number?”
“The number! Ah! I don’t know the number.”
At this, the husband declared that he preferred to give up seeing Duveyrier altogether. Trublot did all he could to try and remember. He had dined there once, it was just behind the Luxembourg; but he could not recollect whether it was at the end of the street, or on the right or the left, But he knew the door well; oh! he could have said at once, “That’s it.” Then the uncle had another idea; he begged him to accompany them in spite of Auguste’s protestations, and his talking of returning home and not wishing to disturb any one any further. Trublot, however, refused in a constrained manner. No, he would not trust himself in that hole again.