“What, that little fellow?”

“Yes, that little Morand, who was formerly Barbet’s clerk.  It seems they expect a good bit of money out of the affair.”

“There’s a good bit to spend,” said Godefroid, with a significant grimace.

Just then a gentle rap was heard at the door of the outer room.  Godefroid, glad of the interruption, having got all he wanted to know out of Madame Vauthier, went to open it.

“What is said, is said, Madame Vauthier,” he remarked as he did so.  The visitor was Monsieur Bernard.

“Ah!  Monsieur Bernard,” cried the widow when she saw him, “I’ve got a letter downstairs for you.”

The old man followed her down a few steps.  When they were out of hearing from Godefroid’s room she stopped.

“No,” she said, “I haven’t any letter; I only wanted to tell you to beware of that young man; he belongs to a publishing house.”

“That explains everything,” thought the old man.

He went back to his neighbor with a very different expression of countenance.

The look of calm coldness with which Monsieur Bernard now entered the room contrasted so strongly with the frank and cordial air he had worn not an instant earlier that Godefroid was forcibly struck by it.

“Pardon me, monsieur,” said the old man, stiffly, “but you have shown me many favors, and a benefactor creates certain rights in those he benefits.”

Godefroid bowed.

“I, who for the last five years have endured a passion like that of our Lord, I, who for thirty-six years represented social welfare, government, public vengeance, have, as you may well believe, no illusions—­no, I have nothing left but anguish.  Well, monsieur, I was about to say that your little act in closing the door of my wretched lair, that simple little thing, was to me the glass of water Bossuet tells of.  Yes, I did find in my heart, that exhausted heart which cannot weep, just as my withered body cannot sweat, I did find a last drop of the elixir which makes us fancy in our youth that all human beings are noble, and I came to offer you my hand; I came to bring you that celestial flower of belief in good—­”

“Monsieur Bernard,” said Godefroid, remembering the kind old Alain’s lessons.  “I have done nothing to obtain your gratitude.  You are quite mistaken.”

“Ah, that is frankness indeed!” said the former magistrate.  “Well, it pleases me.  I was about to reproach you; pardon me, I now esteem you.  So you are a publisher, and you have come here to get my work away from Barbet, Metivier, and Morand?  All is now explained.  You are making me advances in money as they did, only you do it with some grace.”

“Did Madame Vauthier just tell you that I was employed by a publisher?” asked Godefroid.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, Monsieur Bernard, before I can say how much I can give over what those other gentlemen offer, I must know the terms on which you stand with them.”