“At last!” he cried, “fame, fortune, happiness have come to me; but, above all, I can now give myself the joy of vengeance.  After Dutocq and Cerizet, I will crush you, vile bourgeois brood!”

So saying, he shook his fist at the innocent door.  Then he turned and ran out; the popular saying that the earth could not hold him, was true at that moment of his being.

The next day, for he could not restrain any longer the tempest that was swelling within him, la Peyrade went to see Thuillier in the bitterest and most hostile of moods.  What was therefore his amazement when, before he had time to put himself on guard and stop the demonstration of union and oblivion, Thuillier flung himself into his arms.

“My friend,” cried the municipal councillor, as he loosened his clasp, “my political fortune is made; this morning all the newspapers, without exception, have spoken of the seizure of my pamphlet; and you ought to see how the opposition sheets have mauled the government.”

“Simple enough,” said la Peyrade, not moved by this enthusiasm; “you are a topic for them, that’s all.  But this does not alter the situation; the prosecution will be only the more determined to have you condemned.”

“Well, then,” said Thuillier, proudly raising his head, “I will go to prison, like Beranger, like Lamennais, like Armand Carrel.”

“My good fellow, persecution is charming at a distance; but when you hear the big bolts run upon you, you may be sure you won’t like it as well.”

“But,” objected Thuillier, “prisoners condemned for political offences are always allowed to do their time in hospital if they like.  Besides, I’m not yet convicted.  You said yourself you expected to get me acquitted.”

“Yes, but since then I have heard things which make that result very doubtful; the same hand that withheld your cross has seized your pamphlet; you are being murdered with premeditation.”

“If you know who that dangerous enemy is,” said Thuillier, “you can’t refuse to point him out to me.”

“I don’t know him,” replied la Peyrade; “I only suspect him.  This is what you get by playing too shrewd a game.”

“Playing a shrewd game!” said Thuillier, with the curiosity of a man who is perfectly aware that he has nothing of that kind on his conscience.

“Yes,” said la Peyrade, “you made a sort of decoy of Celeste to attract young bloods to your salon.  All the world has not the forbearance of Monsieur Godeschal, who forgave his rejection and generously managed that affair about the house.”

“Explain yourself better,” said Thuillier, “for I don’t see what you mean.”

“Nothing is easier to understand.  Without counting me, how many suitors have you had for Mademoiselle Colleville?  Godeschal, Minard junior, Phellion junior, Olivier Vinet, the substitute judge,—­all men who have been sent about their business, as I am.”