“Have you the warrant?” he asked.

Mazeroux spluttered: 

“It was quite by accident.  I met the Prefect, who was back.  We spoke of the young lady’s business.  And, as it happened, they had discovered that the photograph—­you know, the photograph of Florence Levasseur which the Prefect lent you—­well, they have discovered that you faked it.  And then when I mentioned the name of Florence, the Prefect remembered that that was the name.”

“Have you the warrant?” Don Luis repeated, in a harsher tone.

“Well, you see, I couldn’t help it....  M. Desmalions, the magistrate—­”

If the Place du Palais Bourbon had been deserted at that moment, Don Luis would certainly have relieved himself by a swinging blow administered to Mazeroux’s chin according to the most scientific rules of the noble art.  And Mazeroux foresaw this contingency, for he prudently kept as far away as possible and, to appease the chief’s anger, intended a whole litany of excuses: 

“It was for your good, Chief....  I had to do it ...  Only think!  You yourself told me:  ‘Rid me of the creature!’ said you.  I’m too weak.  You’ll arrest her, won’t you?  Her eyes burn into me—­like poison!  Well, Chief, could I help it?  No, I couldn’t, could I?  Especially as the deputy chief—­”

“Ah!  So Weber knows?”

“Why, yes!  The Prefect is a little suspicious of you since he understood about the faking of the portrait.  So M. Weber is coming back in an hour, perhaps, with reinforcements.  Well, I was saying, the deputy chief had learnt that the woman who used to go to Gaston Sauverand’s at Neuilly—­you know, the house on the Boulevard Richard-Wallace—­was fair and very good looking, and that her name was Florence.  She even used to stay the night sometimes.”

“You lie!  You lie!” hissed Perenna.

All his spite was reviving.  He had been pursuing Florence with intentions which it would have been difficult for him to put into words.  And now suddenly he again wanted to destroy her; and this time consciously.  In reality he no longer knew what he was doing.  He was acting at haphazard, tossed about in turns by the most diverse passions, a prey to that inordinate love which impels us as readily to kill the object of our affections as to die in an attempt to save her.

A newsboy passed with a special edition of the Paris-Midi, showing in great black letters: 

“SENSATIONAL DECLARATION BY DON LUIS PERENNA

“MME. FAUVILLE IS INNOCENT.

“IMMINENT ARREST OF THE TWO CRIMINALS”

“Yes, yes,” he said aloud.  “The drama is drawing to an end.  Florence is about to pay her debt to society.  So much the worse for her.”

He started his car again and drove through the gate.  In the courtyard he said to his chauffeur, who came up: 

“Turn her around and don’t put her up.  I may be starting again at any moment.”

He sprang out and asked the butler: