A small piece of flesh was separated from the little finger. Blood flowed. For the third time, Gérard fainted.
Sernine looked at him for a second or two and said, gently:
"Poor little chap! . . . There, I'll reward you for what you've done; and a hundred times over. I always pay generously."
He went downstairs and found the doctor waiting below:
"It's done. Go upstairs, you, and make a little cut in his right cheek, similar to Pierre Leduc's. The two scars must be exactly alike. I shall come back for you in an hour."
"Where are you going?"
"To take the air. My heart feels anyhow."
Outside he drew a long breath and lit another cigarette:
"A good day's work," he muttered. "A little over-crowded, a little tiring, but fruitful, really fruitful. I am Dolores Kesselbach's friend. I am Geneviève's friend. I have manufactured a new Pierre Leduc, a very presentable one and entirely at my disposal. Lastly, I have found Geneviève a husband of the sort that you don't find by the dozen. Now my task is done. I have only to gather the fruit of my efforts. It's your turn to work, M. Lenormand. I, for my part, am ready." And he added, thinking of the poor mutilated lad whom he had dazzled with his promises, "Only—for there is an 'only'—I have not the slightest notion who this Pierre Leduc was, whose place I have magnanimously awarded to that good young man. And that's very annoying. . . . For when all is said, there's nothing to prove to me that Pierre Leduc was not the son of a pork-butcher! . . ."