"Oh, nothing that I know of," replied Bouchette promptly, and quite unconcernedly. "I have just got out of my bed and came here directly."
If a mountain had been taken from the shoulders of poor M. Belmont, he could not have felt more relief than he did on hearing these few words. He simply could not contain his joy. Leaping up from his seat, he slapped his friend on the shoulder, and exclaimed:
"Well, Bouchette, we shall have a glass of wine, some of my best old Burgundy. Your visit has done me a world of good."
The little grey eyes of Batoche were fixed like gimlets on the wall opposite, at the line where it touched the ceiling. There was a glassy light in them. He had gone off suddenly into one of his absent moods. But it was only for a moment. Recovering himself, he too rose abruptly from his seat, bringing his right arm down with a bang upon his thigh, and muttering a few inarticulate words.
The wine was quaffed with pledges and bons mots. A second round of glasses was indulged in, and when the interview closed at length, Bouchette thundered out of the house as heartily as he had entered it.
"Well!" exclaimed M. Belmont, closing the door and confronting Batoche in the hall.
"Well!" replied the other quietly.
"What do you say?"
"What do I say? I say that this man will never speak a word of what has happened. So you may rest easy."
"And what do you think of himself?"