On entering the hall he listened. Don Luis was tapping against the walls and the partition inside the studio and the bedroom.
“Capital!” said Siméon, with a grin. “His turn now.”
It did not take long. He walked to the kitchen on the right, opened the door of the meter and, turning the key, released the gas, thus beginning again with Don Luis what he had failed to achieve with Patrice and Coralie.
Not till then did he yield to the immense weariness with which he was overcome and allow himself to lie back in a chair for two or three minutes.
His most terrible enemy also was now out of the way. But it was still necessary for him to act and ensure his personal safety. He walked round the lodge, looked for his yellow spectacles and put them on, went through the garden, opened the door and closed it behind him. Then he turned down the lane to the quay.
Once more stopping, in front of the parapet above Berthou’s Wharf, he seemed to hesitate what to do. But the sight of people passing, carmen, market-gardeners and others, put an end to his indecision. He hailed a taxi and drove to the Rue Guimard.
His friend Vacherot was standing at the door of his lodge.
“Oh, is that you, M. Siméon?” cried the porter. “But what a state you’re in!”
“Hush, no names!” he whispered, entering the lodge. “Has any one seen me?”
“No. It’s only half-past seven and the house is hardly awake. But, Lord forgive us, what have the scoundrels done to you? You look as if you had no breath left in your body!”