“Be easy,” returned Mascarin; “we will quickly remove this young woman from our road.”

“Good; but do not be too confident,” answered Hortebise, in his usual tone.  “The danger from her is not the one you think, and which you are trying to avoid.  You think Paul loves her.  You are wrong.  He would drop her to-morrow, so that he could please his self-indulgence.  But the woman who thinks that she hates her lover often deceives herself; and Rose is simply tired of poverty.  Give her a little amount of comfort, good living, and luxury, and you will see her give them all up to come back to Paul.  Yes, I tell you, she will harass and annoy him, as women of her class who have nothing to love always do.  She will even go to Flavia to claim him.”

“She had better not,” retorted Mascarin, in threatening accents.

“Why, how could you prevent it?  She has known Paul from his infancy.  She knew his mother; she was perhaps brought up by her, perhaps even lived in the same street.  Look out, I say, for danger from that quarter.”

“You may be right, and I will take my precautions.”

It was sufficient for Mascarin to be assured of a danger to find means of warding it off.

“My second ‘but,’” continued Hortebise, “is the idea of the mysterious protector of whom the young man spoke.  His mother, he says, has reason to know that his father is dead, and I believe in the truth of the statement.  In this case, what has become of the person who paid Madame Violaine her allowance?”

“You are right, quite right; these are the crevices in our armor; but I keep my eyes open, and nothing escapes me.”

The doctor was growing rather weary, but he still went on courageously.  “My third ‘but’” said he, “is perhaps the strongest.  We must see the young fellow at once.  It may be to-morrow, without even having prepared him or taught him his part.  Suppose we found that he was honest!  Imagine—­if he returned a firm negative to all your dazzling offers!”

Mascarin rose to his feet in his turn.  “I do not think that there is any chance of that,” said he.

“Why not, pray?”

“Because when Tantaine brought him to me, he had studied him carefully.  He is as weak as a woman, and as vain as a journalist.  Besides, he is ashamed at being poor.  No; I can mould him like wax into any shape I like.  He will be just what we wish.”

“Are you sure,” asked Hortebise, “that Flavia will have nothing to say in this matter?”

“I had rather, with your permission, say nothing on that head,” returned Mascarin.  He broke off his speech and listened eagerly.  “There is some one listening,” said he.  “Hark!”

The sound was repeated, and the doctor was about to seek refuge in the inner room, when Mascarin laid a detaining hand upon his arm.

“Stay,” observed he, “it is only Beaumarchef;” and as he spoke, he struck a gilded bell that stood on his desk.  In another instant Beaumarchef appeared, and with an air in which familiarity was mingled with respect, he saluted in military fashion.