But the Minister stopped abruptly; he had just got connection with the Prefecture of Police:
“Hello!” he called, “well, what news?... What?... What’s that you tell me? Juve is dead? Good Lord! you are simply mad!... You don’t know? They never do know anything at the Prefecture! We must make a change there!”
Trembling with agitation, he hung up the receiver again and, all alone in the room, began a perplexed soliloquy:
“Juve is dead! Juve is dead! That isn’t true, for I was awakened by a message informing me that he was tied up at the Palais de Justice, along with M. Fuselier! But in that case ...”
Suddenly he stopped to listen; there was a knock at the door of his room.
“What now?” he yelled, “what is it?... Come in, come in!”
The same valet who had just before answered M. Landais’ summons, again put in his head.
“It is a cyclist constable who would like ...”
“Tell him to come in, for God’s sake!”
The manservant vanished, far from anxious to enjoy a prolonged tête-à-tête with his master, who was in the vilest of tempers. A second or two more and a police-officer entered the Minister’s working room. He had no time to stare in astonishment at the great man’s unconventional attire; the Minister was down on him instantly: