“You might have dealt with the Count de Tremorel.”

“The count would have denied all.  He would have asked what right I had to interfere in his affairs.”

“But the girl?”

M. Plantat sighed heavily.

“Though I detest mixing up with what does not concern me, I did try one day to talk with her.  With infinite precaution and delicacy, and without letting her see that I knew all, I tried to show her the abyss near which she was drawing.”

“And what did she reply?”

“Nothing.  She laughed and joked, as women who have a secret which they wish to conceal, do.  Besides, I could not get a quarter of an hour alone with her, and it was necessary to act, I knew—­for I was her best friend—­before committing this imprudence of speaking to her.  Not a day passed that she did not come to my garden and cull my rarest flowers—­and I would not, look you, give one of my flowers to the Pope himself.  She had instituted me her florist in ordinary.  For her sake I collected my briars of the Cape—­”

He was talking on so wide of his subject that M. Lecoq could not repress a roguish smile.  The old man was about to proceed when he heard a noise in the hall, and looking up he observed Robelot for the first time.  His face at once betrayed his great annoyance.

“You were there, were you?” he said.

The bone-setter smiled obsequiously.

“Yes, Monsieur, quite at your service.”

“You have been listening, eh?”

“Oh, as to that, I was waiting to see if Madame Courtois had any commands for me.”

A sudden reflection occurred to M. Plantat; the expression of his eye changed.  He winked at M. Lecoq to call his attention, and addressing the bone-setter in a milder tone, said:  “Come here, Master Robelot.”

Lecoq had read the man at a glance.  Robelot was a small, insignificant-looking man, but really of herculean strength.  His hair, cut short behind, fell over his large, intelligent forehead.  His eyes shone with the fire of covetousness, and expressed, when he forgot to guard them, a cynical boldness.  A sly smile was always playing about his thin lips, beneath which there was no beard.  A little way off, with his slight figure and his beardless face, he looked like a Paris gamin—­one of those little wretches who are the essence of all corruption, whose imagination is more soiled than the gutters where they search for lost pennies.

Robelot advanced several steps, smiling and bowing.  “Perhaps,” said he, “Monsieur has, by chance, need of me?”

“None whatever, Master Robelot, I only wish to congratulate you on happening in so apropos, to bleed Monsieur Courtois.  Your lancet has, doubtless, saved his life.”

“It’s quite possible.”

“Monsieur Courtois is generous—­he will amply recompense this great service.”

“Oh, I shall ask him nothing.  Thank God, I want nobody’s help.  If I am paid my due, I am content.”