M. Gournay-Martin arose, and began putting out lamps. As he did so, he kept casting fearful glances at the window, as if he feared lest, now that the Duke had gone, the burglars should dash in upon him.
There came a knock at the door, and Jean appeared on the threshold.
“His Grace told me that I was to come into the house, and help Firmin look after it,” he said.
The millionaire gave him instructions about the guarding of the house. Firmin, since he was an old soldier, was to occupy the post of honour, and guard the hall, armed with his gun. Jean was to guard the two drawing-rooms, as being less likely points of attack. He also was to have a gun; and the millionaire went with him to the gun-room and gave him one and a dozen cartridges. When they came back to the hall, Sonia called them into the dining-room; and there, to the accompaniment of an unsubdued grumbling from Germaine at having to eat cold food at eight at night, they made a hasty but excellent meal, since the chef had left an elaborate cold supper ready to be served.
They had nearly finished it when Jean came in, his gun on his arm, to say that Firmin had harnessed the horse to the luggage-cart, and it was awaiting them at the door of the château.
“Send him in to me, and stand by the horse till we come out,” said the millionaire.
Firmin came clumping in.
The millionaire gazed at him solemnly, and said: “Firmin, I am relying on you. I am leaving you in a position of honour and danger—a position which an old soldier of France loves.”
Firmin did his best to look like an old soldier of France. He pulled himself up out of the slouch which long years of loafing through woods with a gun on his arm had given him. He lacked also the old soldier of France’s fiery gaze. His eyes were lack-lustre.
“I look for anything, Firmin—burglary, violence, an armed assault,” said the millionaire.