“Well, I’m off, as Monsieur Trublot can’t come,” said Auguste, whose worries were increased by all these stories.
But Trublot then declared that he would accompany them all the same; only, he would not go up; he would merely show them the door. And, after fetching his hat, and giving a pretext for going out, he joined them in the cab. “Rue d’Assas,” said he to the driver. “Straight down the street; I’ll tell you when to stop.”
The driver swore. Rue d’Assas, by Jove! there were people who liked going about. However, they would get there when they did get there. The big white horse steamed away without making hardly any progress, his neck dislocated in a painful bow at every step.
Bachelard was already relating his misfortune to Trublot. Such things always made him talkative. Yes, with that pig Gueulin, a most delicious little thing! But at this point of his story he recollected Auguste, who, gloomy and doleful, was sitting in a heap in a corner of the cab.
“Ah! true; I beg your pardon!” murmured he; “I keep forgetting.”
And, addressing Trublot, he added:
“Our friend has met with a misfortune in his home also, and that is why we are trying to find Duveyrier. Yes, he found his wife last night—”
He finished with a gesture, then added simply:
“Octave, you know.”
Trublot, always plain-spoken, was about to say that it did not surprise him. Only, he caught back his words, and replaced them by others, full of disdainful anger, and the explanation of which the husband did not dare to ask him for: