The next morning about ten o’clock, a short time after Phillis’s departure, Florentin, who was reading the newspaper in the dining-room, while his mother prepared the breakfast, heard stealthy steps that stopped on the landing before their door. His ear was too familiar with the ordinary sounds in the house to be deceived; there was in these steps a hesitation or a precaution which evidently betrayed a stranger, and with the few connections they had, a stranger was surely an enemy—the one whom he expected.
A ring of the doorbell, given by a firm hand, made him jump from his chair. He did not hesitate; slowly, and with an air of indifference, he opened the door.
He saw before him a man of about forty years, with a polite and shrewd face, dressed in a short coat, and wearing a flat hat.
“Monsieur Florentin Cormier?”
“I am he.”
And he asked him to come in.
“The judge desires to see you at his office.”
Madame Cormier came from the kitchen in time to hear these few words, and if Florentin had not motioned to her to be silent, she would have betrayed herself. The words on her lips were:
“You came to arrest my son!” They would have escaped her, but she crushed them back.
“And can you tell me for what affair the judge summons me?” Florentin asked, steadying his voice.