The workshop was a long room with a door at both ends, and windows each side overlooking the benches, thus leaving a pathway up the centre for the inspector to review the work on both sides of him.
Claude had now resumed his work—something like Jacques Clement, who did not fail to repeat his prayers.
As the clock sounded the last quarter to nine, Claude rose and placed himself near the entrance, apparently calm.
Amidst the most profound silence the clock struck nine; the door was thrown open, and the inspector came in as usual alone, looking quite jovial and self-satisfied, passing rapidly along, tossing his head at one, grinding words out to another, little heeding the eyes fixed so fiercely upon him.
Just then he heard Claude’s step, and turning quickly round said—
“What are you doing here? why are you not in your place?” just as he would have spoken to a dog.
Claude answered respectfully—
“I wish to speak to you, sir.”
“On what subject?”
“Albin.”