up, always with dignity—­thus—­’This, gentlemen, is none other than Jean Didier!’—­’Who?  What!’—­’Jean Didier, at your service, gentlemen, falsely denounced as Communist, executed and reported dead, but, as you see alive, and able to render an important service to an ungrateful country.’—­That sounds sublime!  I flatter myself it would have produced an impression.  Why didn’t I go?  Women, with all their good intentions, haven’t an idea of the value of a stroke like that!  It requires genius.  And I foresee my excellent Marie will muddle the whole affair, very likely allow them to pick her brains and cajole the number out of her, then one of these messieurs will slip off and secure the reward.”  Excitement got a strong hold upon Jean as this idea presented itself, and his castles toppled over.  “That’s it, that’s how it will go!  And I deserve it for having left such a delicate affair in the hands of a woman.  I could have managed it to a turn, and here I have let her go off, and the whole thing will slip through her fingers.  I could beat myself with vexation.”

In effect, he stamped his foot with such violence that Perine jumped up and, looking round, saw him vanishing behind the curtains.  She shrieked with terror, “The man!  Oh, it’s the man!”

White as death, Jean rushed out and tried to calm her.

“Hush, child, hush! it’s only me!”

But Perine was past all control, she screamed for “Mother!” for “M.  Plon!” until it seemed to Jean that not only the house but the whole neighbourhood would presently be on him.  He tried coaxing, he tried menace, but Perine shrieked the more.

“Will you hold your tongue!” he cried, with a wild thought of strangling her.  “I’m a friend, I’m not the man; I won’t touch you.  Perine, Perine, don’t cry out so, look at me!”

At this appeal she hid her eyes with her hands.

“The man! the man!  Mother!  Help!” Nevertheless, though it seemed to poor Jean that the very streets must tingle with her cries, it is possible, for the upper-stories of the house had early risers for their dwellers, that the deaf old woman left on the fifth floor might have heard nothing; but unfortunately M. Plon had taken it into his head to make a visitation to those uninhabited rooms of his in which some one had housed his furniture, and at this moment was on his way.  He knew that Madame Didier was out, and Perine’s screams seemed to point to fire or something equally disastrous.  The door was locked, but he had all his keys about him, and soon succeeded in opening it, when Perine in a transport of terror rushed at him, and flung herself into his arms with a force which might have knocked over a less ponderous rescuer, and effectually blocked the door at which Jean glanced longingly.

“Hola!” cried the astonished landlord. “Que diable! A man in Madame Didier’s room!  What’s the meaning of all this?  Police!”