Every few days I would go to Paris, moved by an unrest for which I could not account.
One day—it was the 26th of June—I had just reached the Place Vendôme, when Beril informed me that my guardian wished to see me.
I found the old gentleman in his dressing-gown, sorting and arranging papers.
"I am leaving Paris," said M. le Vicomte, "for my estates in Auvergne, where I have to put some things in order. From there I am starting on a visit to England."
"To England! Why?"
"My doctor has ordered me rosbif," replied the old gentleman. Then, rising, he opened the door of the room suddenly, and looked out.
"Beril has the habit of applying his ear to keyholes," he explained. "No, my dear Patrique; it is not the state of my health that is moving me to this journey, but the state of France. You know the story of the rats and the sinking ship?"
"Yes."
"Well, call me a rat."
He went on sorting his papers.