“I would swear,” said Théophraste, “that it was Signor Petito, the Italian professor of the floor below. What did Signor Petito come to St. Germain for? I do not want to run foul of him.”
“Well, what has he done, then?” asked Adolphe.
“Oh, nothing. Only if he runs across my way, I swear I will cut off his ears, and you know I will do it if I say so.”
They then went, without any more thought of Signor Petito, to the castle. They entered the Museum, and asked to see the wax mask of Cartouche. Théophraste became enraged when he learned that it was not to be found there, and in his excitement he poked the handle of his green umbrella into the eye of a plaster cast of a member of the Legion of Honor. An old guard came up and told him that he knew well there had been a wax mask of Cartouche in St. Germain, and that it could be found, he thought, in the library. But the latter had been closed up for eight days for repairs. Théophraste gave that man a franc, and they turned their steps toward the terrace, promising themselves to come again at a later time, for the farther the wax mask seemed away, the more Théophraste burned to touch it.
It was a beautiful day, and they walked together in the forest, in the magnificent walk which led to the battlements of the Loge, which were constructed in front of the Castle Germain, by Queen Anne of Austria.
As they reached the south angle of the ramparts, it seemed that Théophraste recognized again, gliding in a thicket, the repulsive form of Signor Petito.
Adolphe insisted that he was mistaken.