M. Bourget stood up, grew purple, half turned away, came back, and opened his arms. It was a happy inspiration of M. Georges to remain in the street, although he took advantage of the stoppage to get out of the cart, and stand at the pony’s head. Fanchon bustled forth, beaming.
“Well, I declare, if it isn’t Monsieur Georges! Drive round to the hotel, monsieur, and put up the pony, and make haste back.”
M. Georges assented, but remarking that it was hardly worth while to get in for such a short distance, proceeded to lead the pony through two streets and a half, to the astonishment of such of his acquaintances as he met. When he got back, he found Raoul, by the aid of some impromptu reins, driving his grandfather round the room and in and out of the chairs, with shouts of delight. He took care to make no remark, and presently M. Bourget sat down by him, wiping his forehead.
“As to that other,” he said, significantly, “I haven’t changed, but it is no fault of the boy’s. Leroux intends to summon you.”
“Let him!” exclaimed M. Georges, valiantly.
“Ay, let him!” chuckled the ex-builder. “And when it comes to the point, it would not surprise me if he thought better of it. You have seen the paper? It is all up with that miserable. The defence is a sham. Run out to Fanchon, my brave, and tell her to cook your fish for my dinner, and see what jam she can find in her cupboard for you. Yes. Monsieur Georges, what do you think now of your fine monsieur!”
“That I respect him with all my heart!” cried the other.
“Respect? So, ho! And for what?”
“For having the courage to speak out, monsieur. Which of us might not have been tempted to deny it altogether?”
“And you still believe him when he says he repaid it?”