No, such an old gentleman had not been seen--but the river was large and deep. If one wanted--mon Dieu!--one could do such a thing easily enough. To drag the river--yes--but that cost money. Ten francs a day for each man. It was hard work out there in the stream. And if one found something--name of a dog--it turned on the stomach. We arranged that two men should drag the river, and, after a weary day, went back to Paris no wiser than we came. In this suspense a week passed, while I, unwilling to touch my patron's papers until we had certain news of his death, could render little assistance to Madame de Clericy and Lucille. That the latter resented anything in the nature of advice or suggestion was soon made clear enough to me. Nay! she left no doubt of her distrust, and showed this feeling whenever we exchanged words. "It is a small thing upon which to condemn a man, Mademoiselle," I said to her one morning when chance left us together. "I told you what I thought to be the truth. Fate ruled that I was after all a poor man--but I have not been proved a liar." "I do not understand you," she answered, with hard eyes. "You are such a strange mixture of good and bad." An hour afterwards I received a telegram advising me that the body of the Vicomte de Clericy had been found in the river at Passy. Chapter XIV A Little Cloud "Rien ne nous rend si grand qu'une grande douleur." Alphonse Giraud and I--between whom had sprung up that friendship of contrasts which Madame de Clericy had foreseen--were in constant communication. My summons brought him to the Hotel Clericy at once, where he found the ladies already apprised of their bereavement. He and I set off again for Passy, by train this time, as our need was more urgent. I despatched instructions to the Vicomte's lawyer to follow by the next train--bringing the undertaker with him. There was no heir to my patron's titles, but it seemed necessary to observe every formality at this the dramatic extinction of a long and noble line. As we drove through the streets, the newsboys were shrieking some tidings which we had neither time nor inclination to inquire into at that moment. It was a hot July day, and Paris should have been half empty, but the pavements were crowded. "What is the matter?" I said to Alphonse Giraud, who was too busy with his horse to look about. "See the faces of the men at the cafes--they are wild with excitement and some look scared. There is news afoot." "My good friend," returned Giraud, "I was in bed when your note reached me. Besides, I only read the sporting columns of the papers." So we took train to Passy, without learning what it was that seemed to be stirring Paris as a squall stirs the sea. At Passy there was indeed grim work awaiting us. The Prefet himself was kind enough to busy himself in a matter which was scarcely within his province. He had instructed the police to conduct us to his house, where he received us most hospitably.