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"Why, haven't you heard, Monsieur le Préfet?" stammered the governor. "I telephoned to the office, you know " "Speak! What is it?" "Mme. Fauville died this morning. She managed somehow to take poison." M. Desmalions seized the governor by the arm and ran to the infirmary, followed by Perenna and Mazeroux. He saw Marie Fauville lying on a bed in one of the rooms.
Javert took a pen and a sheet of paper, and began to write. "In the first place: I beg Monsieur le Prefet to cast his eyes on this. "Secondly: prisoners, on arriving after examination, take off their shoes and stand barefoot on the flagstones while they are being searched. Many of them cough on their return to prison. This entails hospital expenses.
He is a nephew of Lêpine, so many years préfet de police at Paris, and a cousin of Senator Reynault, who was killed in his aeroplane at Toule, famous not only as a brave patriot, but as a volunteer for three reasons exempt from active service a senator, a doctor, and past the age.
"Why," smiled Coquenil, "if he thought he could handle it better than I could, I I think I'd let him try." Then there was another silence, broken presently by Gibelin. "Do you imagine the préfet de police is going to stand being pulled out of bed at three in the morning just because Paul Coquenil wants something? Well, I guess not." "No? What do you think he'll do?" asked Coquenil. "Do?
He bowed with formal ceremony, said, "I was not aware that Monsieur le Vicomte had returned to Paris," and moving to the doorway, made his salutation to the hostess and disappeared. "The insolent!" muttered Enguerrand. "Hush!" said De Mauleon, quietly, "I can fight no more duels, especially with a Prefet.
"And suppose he does not come?" M. Desmalions once more exclaimed, in a more vehement tone. "Then, Monsieur le Préfet, you may take it that I am the culprit; and you have only to arrest me. This day, between five and six o'clock, you will see before you, in this room, the person who killed the Mornington heirs. It is, humanly speaking, impossible that this should not be so.
The Prefet sternly informed poor Peyrade that not only would his yearly allowance be cut off, but that he himself would be narrowly watched. The old man took the shock with an air of perfect calm. Nothing can be more rigidly expressionless than a man struck by lightning. Peyrade had lost all his stake in the game.
His manner was suave, his voice almost caressing in its urbanity "I have the honour, have I not, of speaking to Mr. Laurence Vanderlyn?" Vanderlyn bowed; he turned and led the way to the fireplace. "Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, Laurence Vanderlyn at your service. I think we have already met, at the Elysée " he drew forward a second armchair.
M. Simon laid a warning finger on his lips. "This is in strictest confidence, the order came through his office, but I don't believe the préfet issued it personally. It came from higher up!" "From higher up!" repeated M. Paul, and his thoughts flashed back to that sinister meeting on the Champs Elysées, to that harsh voice and flaunting defiance.
"I swear that you must listen to him. The house will be blown up he said so at three o'clock. We have a few minutes left. Let us go. I entreat you, Monsieur le Préfet." "In other words, you want us to run away." "But it's not running away, Monsieur le Préfet. It's a simple precaution. After all, we can't risk You, yourself, Monsieur le Préfet " "That will do."
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