“Holloa! you here?” he asked. “Have you come as witness in another affair?”
“No. I simply wish to speak to the magistrate. Is he engaged?”
“Always! Just now it is a gang of oil-painting thieves, who have been overhauling the hotel of a marquis in the Champs-Elysées.”
“Can I speak to him?”
“As soon as he rings, I will tell him you are here. Ah, he is in no amiable mood. He and the attorney seem to be quarrelling all the time!”
The bell rang, a door opened, and three men of slouching gait, regular types of Parisian blackguards devoured by absinthe, advanced, casting sly, searching looks in every direction. But there were neither doors nor windows by which they could gain the open-air, so they quietly continued their route.
The attendant said—
“M. Baudoin, will you come in now? M. Mayeur is disengaged.”
The old soldier entered the study. The registrar looked at him as he passed with a certain amount of curiosity. M. Mayeur smilingly pointed to a chair, placed his papers in order, and, turning to the clerk, said—
“You may go now. Put all the files in order. Goodbye.”