“To be sure, Philippe,” said the old fellow, “we must see about it.”
At the introduction thus affected by Flore, Philippe bowed almost timidly to Gilet, who bowed too.
“Uncle, I have some pictures here to return to you. They are at Monsieur Hochon’s. You will, I hope, do me the pleasure of coming to identify them some day or other.”
Having spoken these words in a dry tone, Lieutenant-Colonel Philippe Bridau went away.
His visit made a deeper impression on Flore’s mind, and on Gilet’s too, than mere dismay at the first sight of this dreadful old campaigner. As soon as Philippe had slammed the door with the violence of a supplanted heir, Flore and Gilet hid behind the curtains to watch him as he crossed over from his uncle’s house to the Hochons’.
“What a blackguard!” said Flore, with a questioning glance at Gilet.
“Yes, unfortunately there were some men like that in the Emperor’s armies; I settled seven of them on the hulks,” said Gilet.
“I hope that you will pick no quarrel with this one,” said Mademoiselle Brazier.
“That one!” retorted Max. “He is a mangy dog—but he would like a bone,” he added, addressing old Rouget. “If his uncle will trust my opinion, he will get rid of him with a present; he will not leave you in peace, Papa Rouget.”
“He smelt of horrible tobacco,” said the old man.
“He smelt your money too,” said Flore in a peremptory tone. “My opinion is that you should decline to receive him.”
“I am sure I am quite willing,” said the old man.
“Monsieur,” said Gritte, going into the room where the Hochon family were sitting after breakfast, “here is that Monsieur Bridau you spoke about.”
Philippe entered with much politeness, in the midst of perfect silence, produced by general curiosity. Madame Hochon shuddered from head to foot on beholding the author of all Agathe’s woes, and the cause of good old Madame Descoings’ death. Adolphine, too, was unpleasantly startled; Baruch and François looked at each other with surprise. Old Hochon preserved his presence of mind, and offered Madame Bridau’s son a seat.
“I have come,” said Philippe, “to recommend myself to your good graces, for I have to arrange matters so as to live in this town for five years on sixty francs a month allowed me by France.”
“It can be done,” said Monsieur Hochon.
Philippe talked on indifferent subjects, and conducted himself perfectly well. He spoke of Lousteau the journalist, the old lady’s nephew, as a perfect eagle, and her favor was completely won when she heard him declare that the name of Lousteau would be famous. Then he did not hesitate to confess the errors of his ways; in reply to a friendly reproof administered by Madame Hochon in an undertone, he said that he had thought much while in prison, and promised her to be quite another man for the future.
In response to a word from Philippe, Monsieur Hochon went out with him. When the miser and the soldier were on the Boulevard Baron, at a spot where no one could overhear them, the Colonel said:—
“Monsieur, if you will take my word for it, we had better never discuss business or certain persons excepting when walking out in the country, or in places where we can talk without being heard. Maître Desroches impressed upon me how great is the power of gossip in a small town. I do not wish that you should be suspected of helping me by your advice, though Desroches enjoined on me that I should ask it, and I beg you to give it me freely. We have a powerful enemy opposed to us; we must neglect no precaution that may enable us to defeat him. To begin with, excuse me if I call no more. A little distance between us will leave you clear of any suspicion of influencing my conduct. When I require to consult you, I will walk past your house at half-past nine, just as you are finishing breakfast. If you see me carrying my stick as we shoulder arms, that will convey to you that we are to meet by chance at some spot where we may talk, and which you will tell me of.”
“All that seems to me the idea of a prudent man who means to succeed,” said the old man.
“And I shall succeed, monsieur. To begin with, can you tell me of any officers of the old army living here who are not allies of that Maxence Gilet, and with whom I may make acquaintance?”
“There is a Captain of the Artillery of the Guard, a Monsieur Mignonnet, who was cadet from the École Polytechnique, a man of about forty, who lives quietly; he is a man of honor, and denounces Max, whose conduct seems to him unworthy of a soldier.”
“Good!” said Philippe.
“There are not many officers of that stamp,” Monsieur Hochon went on, “I can think of no one else but a cavalry captain.”
“That was my corps,” said Philippe, “Was he in the Guards?”
“Yes,” said Monsieur Hochon, “In 1810 Carpentier was Quartermaster-General of the Dragoons; he left that regiment and entered the Line as second lieutenant, where he rose to be captain.”
“Giroudeau perhaps may know him,” thought Philippe.
“Monsieur Carpentier took the place at the Mairie which Maxence threw up, and he is a friend of Major Mignonnet’s.”
“And what can I do here for my living?”
“I believe that an Insurance Company is about to be started for the Department of the Cher; you might find employment there, but it would not be more than fifty francs a month at the best.”
“That will do for me.”
By the end of the week Philippe had a new coat, waistcoat, and trousers of blue Elbeuf cloth, bought on credit for monthly payments; boots too, leather gloves, and a hat. Giroudeau sent him some linen from Paris, his weapons, and a letter of
