Cazeau linked his thin hands together with an action of pious fervour and assented.
"There is a broken-hearted creature near us," pursued Patoux leisurely—"We call her Marguerite La Folle;—I have often thought I would ask Pere Laurent to speak to Monseigneur for her, that she might be released from the devils that are tearing her. She was a good girl till a year or two ago,—then some villain got the ruin of her, and she lost her wits over it. Ah,'tis a sad sight to see her now—poor Marguerite Valmond!"
"Ha!" cried Henri suddenly, pointing a grimy finger at Cazeau—"Why did you jump? Did something hurt you?"
Cazeau had indeed "jumped," as Henri put it,—that is, he had sprung up from his chair suddenly and as suddenly sat down again with an air of impatience and discomfort. He rapidly overcame whatever emotion moved him, however, and stretched his thin mouth in a would-be amiable grin at the observant Henri.
"You are a sharp boy!" he observed condescendingly—"and tall for your age, no doubt. How old are you?"
"Eleven," replied Henri—"But that has nothing to do with your jumping."
"True," and the secretary wriggled in his chair, pretending to be much amused—"But my jumping had nothing to do with you either, my small friend! I had a thought,—a sudden thought,—of a duty forgotten."
"Oh, it was a thought, was it?" and Henri looked incredulous. "Do thoughts always make you jump?"
"Tais-toi! Tais-toi!" murmured Patoux gently, between two whiffs of his pipe—"Excuse him, Monsieur Cazeau,—he is but a child."
Cazeau writhed amicably.