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The old woman was sent for. She entered with a sweeping courtesy. She still wore her black taffeta dress, the color of which was rapidly turning to rust and lilac, to say nothing of the dingy bonnet. She seemed in a good temper. She at once said: "Good evening, gentlemen! It's for the envelope, I suppose?" "Yes, Mme. Giry," said Richard, most amiably.
And yet the thing had happened as simply as could be. Please put twenty notes of a thousand francs each into this envelope, seal it with your own seal and hand it to Mme. Giry, who will do what is necessary.
You know me well enough, sir; I'm the mother of little Giry, little Meg, what!" This was said in so rough and solemn a tone that, for a moment, M. Richard was impressed. He looked at Mme. Giry, in her faded shawl, her worn shoes, her old taffeta dress and dingy bonnet. It was quite evident from the manager's attitude, that he either did not know or could not remember having met Mme.
"You did see it, Gabriel, for you went with Mercier and Mother Giry to Mercier's office. Since then, you and Mercier have been seen, but no one has seen Mother Giry." "Do you think we've eaten her?" "No, but you've locked her up in the office; and any one passing the office can hear her yelling, 'Oh, the scoundrels! Oh, the scoundrels!"
Giry, who will see that it reaches me, that you accept, as your predecessors did, the conditions in my memorandum-book relating to my monthly allowance. I will inform you later how you are to pay it to me. If you refuse, you will give FAUST to-night in a house with a curse upon it. Take my advice and be warned in time.
The story of the ghost is all humbug, isn't it? ... Well, still between ourselves, ... it has lasted long enough." Mme. Giry looked at the managers as though they were talking Chinese. She walked up to Richard's table and asked, rather anxiously: "What do you mean? I don't understand." "Oh, you, understand quite well. In any case, you've got to understand... And, first of all, tell us his name."
And so they were content to await events, while keeping an eye on Mother Giry. Richard would not have her spoken to. "If she is a confederate," he said, "the notes are gone long ago. But, in my opinion, she is merely an idiot." "She's not the only idiot in this business," said Moncharmin pensively. "Well, who could have thought it?" moaned Richard.
Offered to publisher after publisher, carted from the Paris libraries to the provincial workshops, this barrow of books had at first been hauled by a single nag, Father Giry; then a second horse had been added, the Abbé Guérin, and, harnessed to the same shafts, these two men pulled their heavy truck over the broken road of souls.
"You hear, Richard: Poligny could refuse the ghost nothing." "Yes, yes, I hear!" said Richard. "M. Poligny is a friend of the ghost; and, as Mme. Giry is a friend of M. Poligny, there we are! ... But I don't care a hang about M. Poligny," he added roughly. "The only person whose fate really interests me is Mme. Giry... Mme. Giry, do you know what is in this envelope?"
M. Richard went and placed himself at the identical spot where he had stood when he bowed to the under-secretary for fine arts. M. Moncharmin took up his position a few steps behind him. Mme. Giry passed, rubbed up against M. Richard, got rid of her twenty-thousand francs in the manager's coat-tail pocket and disappeared ... Or rather she was conjured away.
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