If M. Plon had indeed had sufficient calmness to contemplate the figure before him, it is probable that in spite of alteration he would have found something to recognise.  But he was in a state of perturbed excitement which altogether confused his judgment, and only inclined him to refuse all his prisoner’s suggestions.  He therefore set himself more vigorously than ever to bawl for help, and Perine seconded him with all her might.  The next moment Jean went back to the table, seated himself upon it and crossed his arms.  He had recognised Marie’s step.

She came into the room pale as death, and even as she came, hesitated, and held up her hand, as if she would have prevented a man who was with her from following.  But seeing that she was too late, and that Jean was already discovered, she rushed into his arms, crying out: 

“What has happened?”

M. Plon took up the parable, quite regardless of her action.

“What has happened, Madame Didier?  There is no saying what might not have happened if I had not been on the spot.  Here is a rascally, black-guardly, good-for-nothing!” and as he uttered these bold invectives, he advanced and shook his fist in Jean’s face.  “You see him, M. le Commissaire, you behold what a villain, what a desperate villain he looks?  Listen, then, I hear screams, I meet this poor imbecile flying out in terror, I rush—­I seize—­I overpower—­I make him my prisoner—­”

At this point the police officer interposed a question: 

“You used force, M. Plon?”

“I used—­but certainly—­moral force.  He had made his way into this room through the window, Monsieur—­Monsieur—?”

“Leblanc, at your service,” said the commissioner carelessly.  “Did you say through the window?  That seems scarcely probable.”

But Plon was positive there was no other way by which he could have entered unseen by him.  And now he would give M. le Commissaire a dozen guesses to find out what this rascal had the villainy to pretend.  To look at him, would any one suppose now that he could be the husband of madame?

“Apparently,” said the other, glancing at them, “Madame herself is not averse from that opinion.”

“Her husband—­hee, hee!” said M. Plon, getting red.  “Poor Jean, who was shot in emeute three years ago!  See there, monsieur, it is ridiculous!  If any one should know anything about those times, it is I. I was myself on the very point of becoming a martyr for my country; and as for Jean Didier, whether rightly or wrongly, he was shot, and there was an end of him.  To pretend that he turns up three years later....”

Marie was crying, and M. Plon thought his eloquence had provoked her tears, but she put aside his hand, walked to the commissioner, and dropped on her knees before him.

“Monsieur, if you have a wife—­”

“I have not,” said the man roughly.

“But your mother!  If her son—­”