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Updated: June 1, 2025
That's serious. Expect, then, Monsieur, to see the papers in an hour's time." "Étienne, Étienne," Monsieur cried, "are you mad?" "No madder than is proper for a St. Quentin. It's simple enough. I told you I recognized that worthy back there for one Bernet, who lodged at an inn I wot of over beyond the markets.
The old carl, though his sweeping was done, leaned on his broom on the outer step. "So you didn't find M. Bernet at home? I could have told you as much had you been civil enough to ask." I would have kicked the old curmudgeon, but M. Étienne drew two gold pieces from his pouch. "Perchance if I ask you civilly, you will tell me with whom M. Bernet went out last night?"
He was an ugly enough fellow, one eye entirely closed by a great scar that ran from his forehead nearly to his grizzled mustache. "This is Bernet le Borgne," he said. "Have you encountered him before, Monsieur? He was a soldier under Guise once, they say, but he has done naught but hang about Paris taverns this many a year. We used to wonder how he lived; we knew he did somebody's dirty work.
Those friends of M. Bernet, then there is none you could put a name to?" "Why, no, monsieur, more's the pity. He has none lives in this quarter. M. Bernet's in low water, you understand, monsieur. If he lives here, it is because he can't help it. But he goes elsewhere for his friends." "Then you can tell us, my man, where he lodges?"
"Who are you, then?" "I'll tell you when you let me in." "I'll let you in when you tell me." "My name's Martin. I'm a friend of Bernet. I want to speak to you quietly about a matter of importance." "A friend of Bernet. Hmm! Well, friend of Bernet, it appears to me you speak very well through the door." "I want to speak with you about the affair of to-night." "What affair?" "To-night's affair."
Like those unfortunate persons endowed with a fatal gift, she brought misfortune upon everything she touched. Her friendship was a fatal sign which called down persecution. Mme. de Chevreuse and Mme. de Bernet were exiled, and Laporte did not conceal from his mistress that he expected to be arrested every instant.
"What, two friends of Bernet, ventre bleu!" But he allowed us to enter. He drew back before us with a flourishing bow, his hand resting lightly on his belt, in which was stuck a brace of pistols. Any idea of doing violence on the person of M. Peyrot we dismissed for the present. Our eyes travelled from his pistols over the rest of him.
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