Chapter XIV
A Little Cloud
"Rien ne nous rend si grand qu'une grande douleur."
Alphonse Giraud and I—between whom had sprung up that friendship of contrasts which Madame de Clericy had foreseen—were in constant communication. My summons brought him to the Hôtel Clericy at once, where he found the ladies already apprised of their bereavement. He and I set off again for Passy, by train this time, as our need was more urgent. I despatched instructions to the Vicomte's lawyer to follow by the next train—bringing the undertaker with him. There was no heir to my patron's titles, but it seemed necessary to observe every formality at this the dramatic extinction of a long and noble line.
As we drove through the streets, the newsboys were shrieking some tidings which we had neither time nor inclination to inquire into at that moment. It was a hot July day, and Paris should have been half empty, but the pavements were crowded.
"What is the matter?" I said to Alphonse Giraud, who was too busy with his horse to look about. "See the faces of the men at the cafés—they are wild with excitement and some look scared. There is news afoot."
"My good friend," returned Giraud, "I was in bed when your note reached me. Besides, I only read the sporting columns of the papers."
So we took train to Passy, without learning what it was that seemed to be stirring Paris as a squall stirs the sea.
At Passy there was indeed grim work awaiting us. The Préfet himself was kind enough to busy himself in a matter which was scarcely within his province. He had instructed the police to conduct us to his house, where he received us most hospitably.
"Neither of you is related to the Vicomte?" he said, interrogatively; and we stated our case at once.