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Suddenly the governor walks into the offices, with his face all red and eyes inflamed, as though after a night's feasting, draws in his breath noisily, and in rude terms says to me, with his Italian accent: "But this place stinks, Moussiou Passajon." The place did not stink, if you like the word. Only shall I say it? I had ordered a few onions to garnish a knuckle of veal which Mme.
This devil of a man spent five minutes looking at me without speaking, all the while turning over a book filled with writing not unknown to me, and suddenly he said, in a mocking and severe tone: "Well, M. Passajon, how long is it since the affair of the drayman?"
"You know, pere Passajon," said he to me between two mouthfuls, "I know where he is. I have seen him." He winked his eye knowingly. I looked at him in wonder. "Who is it you have seen, M. Francis?" "The marquis, my master over there in the little white house behind Notre-Dame." I went there first thing next morning. There he was. Oh, well disguised, I tell you. Only his valet could recognise him.
I had just finished my humble morning meal, and, as my custom is, had bestowed the balance of my provisions in the safe in the directors' room, a magnificent safe with a secret lock, which has served as my pantry during the four years, or nearly that, of my employment in the Territoriale; suddenly the Governor enters the office, red as a turkey-cock, his eyes inflamed as if he were fresh from a feast, breathing noisily, and says to me in vulgar phrase, with his Italian accent: "There's a horrible smell here, Moussiou Passajon."
"Do you know, Père Passajon," he said between two mouthfuls, "I know where he is I've seen him." He winked slyly. For my part, I stared at him in amazement. "In God's name, what have you seen, Monsieur Francis?" "The marquis, my master yonder in the little white house behind Notre Dame." He did not say the morgue, because that is a too vulgar word. "I was very sure I should find him there.
The courtyard at his house is full of placards and sounds empty as if death had passed that way. The château at Nanterre's for sale. There were half a dozen 'little Bethlehems' left, and they packed them off in a cab. It's the crash, I tell you, Père Passajon, a crash that we may not see the end of, perhaps, because we're both old, but it will be complete.
We all laughed much at this idea; but we were anxious to make acquaintance in our own turn with this curious article. "Come, pere Passajon, read it aloud to us." It was the general desire, and I assented.
When I rose as he passed deeply moved but dignified: you can always trust Passajon he looked at me with a smile and said in an undertone to the young man who accompanied him: "What a fine head, like " then a word that I did not hear, a word ending in ard, like leopard. But no, it could not be that, for I am not conscious of having a head like a leopard.
He must be very clever, this infernal governor, to deceive even his wife, to act a part even at home, where the cleverest let themselves be seen as they really are. In the meantime all these rogues have good dinners; even Bois l'Hery has his meals sent in to the prison from the Cafe Anglais, and poor old Passajon is reduced to live on scraps picked up in the kitchen.
There is a very honorable person of my acquaintance, M. Joyeuse, bookkeeper for Hemerlingue and Son, the great bankers on Rue Saint-Honoré, who never fails to say to me whenever he meets me: "Passajon, my boy, don't stay in that den of thieves. You make a mistake in staying on there; you'll never get a sou out of it. Come to Hemerlingue's. I'll undertake to find some little corner for you.
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