Julia had thrown herself on a lounge and appeared thoughtful. The barber bowed to her, and, making a sign to Marcel, left the apartment with him.
Marcel was a bachelor of twenty-eight or thirty years, short, fat and cheerful; obedient and exact as an Oriental, but endowed with very little genius and incapable of conducting the merest intrigue. The marquis, to whom more adroit, more active, more enterprising people were necessary, but who appreciated Marcel's faithfulness, had found, in order to keep him, no better means of employing him than to make him the keeper of this house. There his functions were limited to a passive obedience to the orders which he received; but he was a stranger to all the intrigues of which this abode was the theatre, and ignored sometimes the correct name of the person who during a short period was reigning sovereign in the little house. This troubled him little, and his indifference was a guarantee of his discretion, a quality which in his employ was very necessary.
"You know Chaudoreille?" said the barber to Marcel, following him into the passageway which led to the staircase.
"Yes, monsieur," answered the valet, "I knew him formerly in a rather unfortunate affair, since I had to pass six months in prison, and God knows if I was guilty. It is in the neighborhood of seven years ago, and I was not then in the marquis' service. I was drinking in an inn, and Chaudoreille was there also; he was playing at piquet with two other cavaliers, and they invited me to make one of their party. I accepted the invitation. I played and I lost. He took my place, put down some crowns for me, saying that we should be partners, and played with surprising good fortune. I was delighted to see him win, but our adversaries pretended that he cheated. Then they disputed, and in place of paying us wanted to fight us so badly that they made a great noise. The sergeants of the watch arrived with their archers and led us to prison,—Chaudoreille and me. That was how we made acquaintance; but since that time I have lost the taste for playing. I wouldn't touch a card now."
"All the better for you. I advise you to keep that resolution."
The barber and Marcel then went down the stairs which led into the vestibule, when cries of "Thief!" "Beware!" "Murder!" came to their ears. The cries came from the garden, and Touquet recognized the chevalier's voice.
"What the devil is he at now?" said the barber, hurrying his steps, while Marcel followed him, repeating,—
"Thieves! That is singular. However, the doors are close shut, and the walls of the garden are ten feet high."
Tired of being without light in the vestibule, Chaudoreille had returned into the garden, where, since the moon was nearly hidden by clouds, one could see but a little way from him. The chevalier was singing a virelay which he accompanied by striking Rolande against the branches, then barren of foliage. All of a sudden, at the entrance to some shrubbery, a large white face appeared opposite Chaudoreille, who stopped and cried, in a faltering voice,—
"Who goes there?"