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“How can I help it, you dear old Victoire?2 When I want a person of respectable appearance and incorruptible morals, I think of you. You ought to be flattered.”

“That’s all you care about me!” she cried. “You run me into danger once more; and you think it’s funny!”

“What are you risking?”

“How do you mean, what am I risking? All my characters are false.”

“Characters are always false.”

“And suppose M. Daubrecq finds out? Suppose he makes inquiries?”

“He has made inquiries.”

“Eh? What’s that?”

“He has telephoned to the steward of Comte Saulevat, in whose service you say that you have had the honour of being.”

“There, you see, I’m done for!”

“The count’s steward could not say enough in your praise.”

“He does not know me.”

“But I know him. I got him his situation with Comte Saulevat. So you understand...”

Victoire seemed to calm down a little:

“Well,” she said, “God’s will be done... or rather yours. And what do you expect me to do in all this?”

“First, to put me up. You were my wet-nurse once. You can very well give me half your room now. I’ll sleep in the armchair.”