Cerizet was quite overcome.
“You see,” said du Portail, “that she is an angel,—never the least ill-humor, never a sharp word; sad sometimes, but always caused by a feeling of motherly solicitude. That is what first gave the doctors the idea that if reality could take the place of her constant hallucination she might recover her reason. Well, this is the girl that fool of a Peyrade refuses, with the accompaniment of a magnificent ‘dot.’ But he must come to it, or I’ll forswear my name. Listen,” he added as the sound of a piano came to them; “hear! what talent! Thousands of sane women can’t compare with her; they are not as reasonable as she is, except on the surface.”
When Beethoven’s sonata, played from the soul with a perfection of shades and tones that filled her hardened hearer with admiration, had ceased to sound, Cerizet said:—
“I agree with you, monsieur; la Peyrade refuses an angel, a treasure, a pearl, and if I were in his place—But we shall bring him round to your purpose. Now I shall serve you not only with zeal, but with enthusiasm, I may say fanaticism.”
As Cerizet was concluding this oath of fidelity at the door of the study, he heard a woman’s voice which was not that of Lydie.
“Is he in his study, the dear commander?” said that voice, with a slightly foreign accent.
“Yes, madame, but please come into the salon. Monsieur is not alone; I will tell him you are here.”
This was the voice of Katte, the old Dutch maid.
“Stop, go this way,” said du Portail quickly to Cerizet.
And he opened a hidden door which led through a dark corridor directly to the staircase, whence Cerizet betook himself to the office of the “Echo de la Bievre,” where a heated discussion was going on.