"To-day is Monday; on Thursday, at eleven o'clock, I shall have the honour of seeing your Royal Highness again, and will then submit my little condition."
"Very well, monsieur; on Thursday."
M. Pascal bowed profoundly, and went out.
When he passed through the parlour where the officials were assembled all rose respectfully, recognising the importance of the person whom the prince had just received. M. Pascal returned their courtesy with a patronising inclination of the head, and left the palace as he had entered it, both hands in his pockets, not denying himself the pleasure—for this man lost nothing—of stopping a minute before the lodge of the porter and saying to him:
"Well, scoundrel, will you recognise me another time?"
"Oh, I shall recognise monsieur hereafter! I beg monsieur to pardon my mistake."
"He begs me," said Pascal, half aloud, with a bitter smile. "They know how to beg from the Royal Highness to the porter."
M. Pascal, as he went out of the Élysée, fell again into painful reflections upon the subject of the young girl whose secret meeting with Count Frantz de Neuberg he had surprised. Wishing to know if she lived in the house contiguous to the palace, he was going to make inquiries, when, remembering that such a course might perhaps compromise his plans, he prudently resolved to wait until evening.
Seeing a hackney coach, he called the driver, entered the carriage, and said to him:
"Faubourg St. Marceau, fifteen; the large factory whose chimney you see from the street."