“Ah, I dare say, I dare say, my dear Monsieur Bourget; I only tell you what is said, and you know best how much it is worth. A thousand thanks for the coffee, and let me advise you to go home and rest, for you don’t look yourself.”
“He knows more than he will say,” groaned M. Bourget, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, “otherwise he would never have ventured to repeat what he did. There is a report abroad; I know it, I feel it! It was evident enough that Dr Mathurin had heard something, for the very moment I mentioned Poissy, he looked embarrassed, and started away. Yes, yes, it has leaked out, it is in the air; and what wonder! A poor devil whom no one knows or cares anything about has twice the chance. But directly anything disgraceful happens to one of the noblesse, then every stone in the wall has a voice to cry it out. And to a Beaudrillart! No doubt all Paris has got hold of it I should not be surprised if it were in the papers already.”
A Figaro was lying on the table near him; M. Bourget, with a gleam of satisfaction that he had not to pay for it, took it up and hastily scanned its columns. He had just satisfied himself that the thing he dreaded was not there when he caught sight of an advancing figure.
“Monsieur Georges!”
“At your service, Monsieur Bourget.”
“You are the very man I want. I am going in your direction.”
“À la bonne heure. Permit me to venture to remark that you look a little upset—fatigued, Monsieur Bourget.”
“That is what every one finds it agreeable to say to me. Why should I be fatigued? I have only walked from Poissy.”
“Ah!” Across M. Georges’s small anxious face flitted a tremulous smile. Even he, politest of men, was aware of M. Bourget’s weakness. “They are all well there, I trust!”
His companion made no answer to the question. He said, abruptly: