“In yours or else in his, monsieur,” was the reply; “he’s upstairs. I just saw him go in with the little boy who’s been coming to see him every day for a fortnight.”
“Aha! so a little boy comes to see him every morning? About how old a boy?”
“Oh! perhaps ten or twelve years old; but he’s got a very sharp face. He ain’t handsome, but in spite of that, he’s got such a sly expression that you’d almost call him good-looking.”
“What in the deuce can Poterne be doing with this boy?” said Daréna to himself as he went upstairs. “Can it be his son? Oh, no! a man like him never acknowledges a child; he would have to take care of him. It’s probably some urchin whom he has hired to do his errands and polish his boots; but I supposed that he did all that himself.”
Daréna entered his room, and, not finding Poterne there, went up another flight and knocked at the door of his agent’s chamber.
Instantly there was a great commotion inside; it was as if chairs were being upset, and closet doors opened and shut. At last Monsieur Poterne’s shrill, unmusical voice inquired:
“Who’s there?”
“Parbleu! it’s I. Let me in, you old scoundrel.”
“Why don’t you let me know who it is at once?” asked Poterne, as he opened the door. “I was very busy—your knock disturbed me—as I didn’t know who it was.”
Daréna glanced about the room, which was in great disorder; then, fastening his eyes on Poterne, who seemed to be anxious to set things to rights, he said: