“I do not think I have ever seen you in the town, Monsieur Cazeau,” he said—­“Nor at Mass in the Cathedral either?”

“No?” responded Cazeau easily, in a half-querying tone—­“I do not much frequent the streets; and I only attend the first early mass on Sundays.  My work for Monseigneur occupies my whole time.”

“Ah!” and Patoux, having stuffed his pipe sufficiently, lit it, and proceeded to smoke peaceably—­“There must be much to do.  Many poor and sick who need money, and clothes, and help in every way,—­and to try and do good, and give comfort to all the unhappy souls in Rouen is a hard task, even for an Archbishop.”

Cazeau linked his thin hands together with an action of pious fervour and assented.

“There is a broken-hearted creature near us,” pursued Patoux leisurely—­“We call her Marguerite La Folle;—­I have often thought I would ask Pere Laurent to speak to Monseigneur for her, that she might be released from the devils that are tearing her.  She was a good girl till a year or two ago,—­then some villain got the ruin of her, and she lost her wits over it.  Ah,’tis a sad sight to see her now—­poor Marguerite Valmond!”

“Ha!” cried Henri suddenly, pointing a grimy finger at Cazeau—­“Why did you jump?  Did something hurt you?”

Cazeau had indeed “jumped,” as Henri put it,—­that is, he had sprung up from his chair suddenly and as suddenly sat down again with an air of impatience and discomfort.  He rapidly overcame whatever emotion moved him, however, and stretched his thin mouth in a would-be amiable grin at the observant Henri.

“You are a sharp boy!” he observed condescendingly—­“and tall for your age, no doubt.  How old are you?”

“Eleven,” replied Henri—­“But that has nothing to do with your jumping.”

“True,” and the secretary wriggled in his chair, pretending to be much amused—­“But my jumping had nothing to do with you either, my small friend!  I had a thought,—­a sudden thought,—­of a duty forgotten.”

“Oh, it was a thought, was it?” and Henri looked incredulous.  “Do thoughts always make you jump?”

“Tais-toi!  Tais-toi!” murmured Patoux gently, between two whiffs of his pipe—­“Excuse him, Monsieur Cazeau,—­he is but a child.”

Cazeau writhed amicably.

“A delightful child,” he murmured—­“And the little girl—­his sister--is also charming—­Ah, what fine dark eyes!—­what hair!  Will she not come and speak to me?”

He held out a hand invitingly towards Babette, but she merely made a grimace at him and retired backwards.  Patoux smiled benevolently.

“She does not like strangers,” he explained.

“Good—­very good!  That is right!  Little girls should always run away from strangers, especially strangers of my sex,” observed Cazeau with a sniggering laugh—­“And do these dear children go to school?”

Patoux took his pipe out of his mouth altogether, and stared solemnly at the ceiling.