“What, is it you, sir,” said she, “and at this hour!”

“What’s that you say?” asked the old fellow.

“I say,” replied the housekeeper, “that it is more than half-past eight o’clock.  I thought you were not coming back this evening.  Have you at least dined?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, fortunately I have kept your dinner warm.  You can sit down to it at once.”

Old Tabaret took his place at the table, and helped himself to soup, but mounting his hobby-horse again, he forgot to eat, and remained, his spoon in the air, as though suddenly struck by an idea.

“He is certainly touched in the head,” thought Manette, the housekeeper.  “Look at that stupid expression.  Who in his senses would lead the life he does?” She touched him on the shoulder, and bawled in his ear, as if he were deaf,—­“You do not eat.  Are you not hungry?”

“Yes, yes,” muttered he, trying mechanically to escape the voice that sounded in his ears, “I am very hungry, for since the morning I have been obliged—­” He interrupted himself, remaining with his mouth open, his eyes fixed on vacancy.

“You were obliged—?” repeated Manette.

“Thunder!” cried he, raising his clenched fists towards the ceiling,—­“heaven’s thunder!  I have it!”

His movement was so violent and sudden that the housekeeper was a little alarmed, and retired to the further end of the dining-room, near the door.

“Yes,” continued he, “it is certain there is a child!”

Manette approached him quickly.  “A child?” she asked in astonishment.

“What next!” cried he in a furious tone.  “What are you doing there?  Has your hardihood come to this that you pick up the words which escape me?  Do me the pleasure to retire to your kitchen, and stay there until I call you.”

“He is going crazy!” thought Manette, as she disappeared very quickly.

Old Tabaret resumed his seat.  He hastily swallowed his soup which was completely cold.  “Why,” said he to himself, “did I not think of it before?  Poor humanity!  I am growing old, and my brain is worn out.  For it is clear as day; the circumstances all point to that conclusion.”

He rang the bell placed on the table beside him; the servant reappeared.

“Bring the roast,” he said, “and leave me to myself.”

“Yes,” continued he furiously carving a leg of Presale mutton—­“Yes, there is a child, and here is his history!  The Widow Lerouge, when a young woman, is in the service of a great lady, immensely rich.  Her husband, a sailor, probably had departed on a long voyage.  The lady had a lover—­found herself enciente.  She confided in the Widow Lerouge, and, with her assistance, accomplished a clandestine accouchement.”

He called again.

“Manette, the dessert, and get out!”

Certainly such a master was unworthy of so excellent a cook as Manette.  He would have been puzzled to say what he had eaten for diner, or even what he was eating at this moment; it was a preserve of pears.