"Nothing decisive, your Excellency. A mere hint, a hushed rumor, that Le Beau was last traced to the neighborhood of Prince Haganè's official residence."
"Sacrebleu! You should have probed."
"I asked a few questions guardedly. Your Excellency, one hesitates to put a match to a powder-train."
"Quite true, Mouquin. And when did the hushed rumor have it that he was seen,—what hour?"
"Before noon,—not long, in fact, after his mysterious escape from the nurses."
Ronsard's head dropped forward an inch. A sickly glow drove the usual gray pallor from his face.
"Doubtless," ventured the secretary, "Monsieur Le Beau will find his way sooner or later—to you!"
"Certainement! Certainement!" cried the other, finding relief in sarcasm. "He will come weeping to the arms of Mother France. Bah! I would that Mother France could greet him with the toes of these boots!"
He thrust forward pointed patent-leather tips, and stared at them, as if calculating the punishment they might inflict.
Mouquin, not being asked to find a seat, still stood by the door. The very air of the room held in solution, with its blue smoke, the dampness of foreboding. The first secretary's voice sounded thin.