“Ruin yourself if you choose,” she said, “you are the master of that, and you can do as you like; a fool and his money are soon parted.”

When, therefore, she listened to her brother’s confidences it was not with reproaches, but, on the contrary, with a crow of triumph, celebrating the probable return of her power, that she welcomed them.

“So much the better!” she cried; “it is well to know at last that the man is a spy.  I always thought so, the canting bigot!  Turn him out of doors without an explanation.  WE don’t want him to work that newspaper.  This Monsieur Cerizet seems, from what you tell me, the right sort of man, and we can get another manager.  Besides, when Madame de Godollo went away she promised to write to me; and she can easily put us in the way of finding some one.  Poor, dear Celeste! what a fate we were going to give her!”

“How you run on!” said Thuillier.  “La Peyrade, my dear, is so far only accused.  He must be heard in his defence.  And besides, there’s a deed that binds us.”

“Ah, very good!” said Brigitte; “I see how it will be; you’ll let that man twist you round his finger again.  A deed with a spy!  As if there could be deeds with such fellows.”

“Come, come, be calm, my good Brigitte,” returned Thuillier.  “We mustn’t do anything hastily.  Certainly, if la Peyrade cannot furnish a justification, clear, categorical, and convincing, I shall decide to break with him, and I’ll prove to you that I am no milksop.  But Cerizet himself is not certain; these are mere inductions, and I only came to consult you as to whether I ought, or ought not, to demand an explanation outright.”

“Not a doubt about it,” replied Brigitte.  “You ought to demand an explanation and go to the bottom of this thing; if you don’t, I cast you off as my brother.”

“That suffices,” said Thuillier, leaving the room with solemnity; “you shall see that we will come to an understanding.”

CHAPTER XI

EXPLANATIONS AND WHAT CAME OF THEM

On his return to the office after his conference with Brigitte, Thuillier found la Peyrade at his post as editor-in-chief, and in a position of much embarrassment, caused by the high hand he had reserved for himself as the sole selector of articles and contributors.  At this moment, Phellion, instigated by his family, and deeply conscious of his position on the reading-committee of the Odeon, had come to offer his services as dramatic critic.

“My dear monsieur,” he said, continuing his remarks to la Peyrade, after inquiring of Thuillier about his health, “I was a great student of the theatre in my youth; the stage and its scenic effects continue to have for me peculiar attractions; and the white hairs which crown my brow to-day seem to me no obstacle to my allowing your interesting publication to profit by the fruit of my studies and my experience.  As member of the reading-committee of the Odeon theatre, I am conversant with the modern drama, and—­if I may be quite sure of your discretion —­I will even confide to you that among my papers it would not be impossible for me to find a certain tragedy entitled ‘Sapor,’ which in my young days won me some fame when read in salons.”