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On the eighth day he left at each house a note, written in their peculiar cipher, to explain to his friend what death hung over him, and to tell him of Lydie's abduction and the horrible end to which his enemies had devoted them. Peyrade, bereft of Corentin, but seconded by Contenson, still kept up his disguise as a nabob.
From her he heard of Lydie's disappearance, and remained astounded at Peyrade's and his own want of foresight. "But they do not know me yet," said he to himself. "This crew is capable of anything; I must find out if they are killing Peyrade; for if so, I must not be seen any more " The viler a man's life is, the more he clings to it; it becomes at every moment a protest and a revenge.
And, I tell you, only your bad sort know how to do such things but often has he given me ten francs to go and gamble with..." After this funeral oration, Peyrade's two avengers went back to Lydie's room, hearing Katt and the medical officer from the Mairie on the stairs. "Go and fetch the Chief of Police," said Corentin.
At this moment, up the stairs came some one to whom they were familiar, and the door was opened. Peyrade, in a violent sweat, his face purple, his eyes almost blood-stained, and gasping like a dolphin, rushed from the outer door to Lydie's room, exclaiming: "Where is my child?" He saw a melancholy sign from Corentin, and his eyes followed his friend's hand.
Now, I will take you to Lydie's presence; remember to play the part of doctor; for the only thing that makes her lose her customary serenity is not to enter into her notion of medical consultation."
The Police Commissioner presently arrived; Corentin told him his suspicions, and begged him to draw up a report, telling him where and with whom Peyrade had supped, and the causes of the state in which he found Lydie. Corentin then went to Lydie's rooms; Desplein and Bianchon had been examining the poor child. He met them at the door. "Well, gentlemen?" asked Corentin.
Lydie's condition can only be compared to that of a flower tenderly cherished by a gardener, now fallen from its stem, and crushed by the iron-clamped shoes of some peasant. Ascribe this simile to a father's heart, and you will understand the blow that fell on Peyrade; the tears started to his eyes. "You are crying! It is my father!" said the girl.
There were garret rooms above the fourth floor, one of them a kitchen, and the other a bedroom for Pere Canquoelle's only servant, a Fleming named Katt, formerly Lydie's wet-nurse. Old Canquoelle had taken one of the outside rooms for his bedroom, and the other for his study. The study ended at the party-wall, a very thick one.
"But it was Lydie's marriage-portion I looked for there!" said Peyrade, in a whisper to Corentin. "Now, come along, Contenson, let us be off, and leave our daddy to by-bye, by-bye!" "Monsieur," said Contenson to Corentin on the doorstep, "what a queer piece of brokerage our good friend was planning! Heh! What, marry a daughter with the price of Ah, ha!
Peyrade's door was graced with a slate, on which very strange marks might sometimes be seen, figures scrawled in chalk. This sort of devil's algebra bore the clearest meaning to the initiated. Lydie's rooms, opposite to Peyrade's shabby lodging, consisted of an ante-room, a little drawing-room, a bedroom, and a small dressing-room.
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