ner for five years. There was
some mystery at the bottom of it--so thought Mme. Petit, and her
anger doubled with her curiosity.

"To order a dinner at this hour," she grumbled. "Has he got
common-sense, then?" But reflecting that time pressed, she
continued:

"Go along, Louis; this is not the moment for two feet to stay in
one shoe. Hurry up, and wring three chickens' heads; see if there
ain't some ripe grapes in the conservatory; bring on some preserves;
fetch some wine from the cellar!" The dinner was well advanced
when the bell rung again. This time Baptiste appeared, in exceeding
bad humor, bearing M. Lecoq's night-gown.

"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