“Topinard, at your service.”
“Kind regards to all at home,” said La Sauvage, “and my compliments to your missus, if you are married, mister.... That was all I wanted to know.”
“Why, what is the matter, dear?” asked Mme. Cantinet, coming out.
“This, child—stop here and look after the dinner while I run round to speak to monsieur.”
“He is down below, talking with poor Mme. Cibot, that is crying her eyes out,” said Mme. Cantinet.
La Sauvage dashed down in such headlong haste that the stairs trembled beneath her tread.
“Monsieur!” she called, and drew him aside a few paces to point out Topinard.
Topinard was just going away, proud at heart to have made some return already to the man who had done him so many kindnesses. He had saved Pons’ friend from a trap, by a stratagem from that world behind the scenes in which every one has more or less ready wit. And within himself he vowed to protect a musician in his orchestra from future snares set for his simple sincerity.
“Do you see that little wretch?” said La Sauvage. “He is a kind of honest man that has a mind to poke his nose into M. Schmucke’s affairs.”
“Who is he?” asked Fraisier.