M. Desmalions smiled:
"That is a poor argument. Will you use the same when I ask you why you live in hiding, why you left the Avenue du Roule, where you used to live, without leaving an address behind you, and why you receive your letters at the post-office under initials?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, those are matters of a private character, which affect only my conscience. You have no right to question me about them."
"That is the exact reply which we are constantly receiving at every moment from your accomplice."
"My accomplice?"
"Yes, Mme. Fauville."
"Mme. Fauville!"
Gaston Sauverand had uttered the same cry as when he heard of the death of the engineer; and his stupefaction seemed even greater, combined as it was with an anguish that distorted his features beyond recognition.
"What?… What?… What do you say? Marie!… No, you don't mean it! It's not true!"
M. Desmalions considered it useless to reply, so absurd and childish was this affectation of knowing nothing about the tragedy on the Boulevard Suchet.