“Your reasons, Monsieur?”
“Because the lawyer is a scoundrel. Your betrayal of his secret is not a thousandth part so bad as one lie told to this woman, whose very life is her child. Is it a boy or a girl?”
“A boy.”
“Good! What harm can be done? A left-handed boy is all right in the world. Your wife has twins—then think of the woman, the one ewe lamb of ‘the poor wanton.’ If you do not tell her, you will have her here making a noise, as you say. I wonder she has not been here on your door-step.”
“I had a letter from her to-day. She is coming-ah, mon dieu!”
“When?”
There was a tap at the window. The Notary started. “Ah, Heaven, here she is!” he gasped, and drew over to the wall.
A voice came from outside. “Shall I play for you, Dauphin? It is as good as medicine.”
The Notary recovered himself at once. His volatile nature sprang back to its pose. He could forget Paulette Dubois for the moment.
“It is Maximilian Cour in the garden,” he said happily. Then he raised his voice. “Play on, baker; but something for convalescence—the return of spring, the sweet assonance of memory.”