“See here,” said he to the cook, “what the person, who is with your master, gave me to bring here.”

“What person?”

“How do I know?  He’s a spy sent down from Paris about this Valfeuillu affair; not much good, probably—­ill-bred—­a brute—­and a wretch.”

“But he’s not alone with monsieur?”

“No; Doctor Gendron is with them.”

Mme. Petit burned to get some news out of Baptiste; but Baptiste also burned to get back and know what was taking place at his master’s—­so off he went, without having left any news behind.

An hour or more passed, and Mme. Petit had just angrily declared to Louis that she was going to throw the dinner out the window, when her master at last appeared, followed by his guests.  They had not exchanged a word after they left the mayor’s.  Aside from the fatigues of the evening, they wished to reflect, and to resume their self-command.  Mme. Petit found it useless to question their faces—­ they told her nothing.  But she did not agree with Baptiste about M. Lecoq:  she thought him good-humored, and rather silly.  Though the party was less silent at the dinner-table, all avoided, as if by tacit consent, any allusion to the events of the day.  No one would ever have thought that they had just been witnesses of, almost actors in, the Valfeuillu drama, they were so calm, and talked so glibly of indifferent things.  From time to time, indeed, a question remained unanswered, or a reply came tardily; but nothing of the sensations and thoughts, which were concealed beneath the uttered commonplaces, appeared on the surface.

Louis passed to and fro behind the diners, his white cloth on his arm, carving and passing the wine.  Mme. Petit brought in the dishes, and came in thrice as often as was necessary, her ears wide open, leaving the door ajar as often as she dared.  Poor woman! she had prepared an excellent dinner, and nobody paid any attention to it.

M. Lecoq was fond of tit-bits; yet, when Louis placed on the table a dish of superb grapes—­quite out of season—­his mouth did not so much as expand into a smile.  Dr. Gendron would have been puzzled to say what he had eaten.  The dinner was nearly over, when M. Plantat began to be annoyed by the constraint which the presence of the servants put upon the party.  He called to the cook: 

“You will give us our coffee in the library, and may then retire, as well as Louis.”

“But these gentlemen do not know their rooms,” insisted Mme. Petit, whose eavesdropping projects were checked by this order.  “They will, perhaps, need something.”

“I will show them their rooms,” said M. Plantat, dryly.  “And if they need anything, I shall be here.”

They went into the library.  M. Plantat brought out a box of cigars and passed them round: 

“It will be healthful to smoke a little before retiring.”

M. Lecoq lit an aromatic weed, and remarked: