"Ah, madame, Justice is sometimes so stupid--so wrongheaded!... Look here now, would you like a bit of good advice?... Telephone to Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil. They are well known and powerful--perhaps they would exert their influence in your servant's favour? He might be set free this evening! I, you see, am but a journalist, and without a scrap of influence!" Madame Bourrat thought this a good idea. Fandor rang for an attendant. "Take madame to the telephone!" Left to himself, the reporter could not help rubbing his hands. "I must get rid of this excellent woman, who is certainly the most foolish person it has ever been my lot to meet. Good hearing! That servant of hers is under lock and key--things are going in the right direction ... but they are not going well for me!... If he confesses, to-morrow, when he is had up for examination, then the police will have the information before me!... Then, too, they are such duffers--such bunglers--that they are quite capable of giving that Jules his liberty!... What the deuce must I do to prevent his being let loose, and how am I to stop the judicial interrogation?... What a dog's life a journalist's is!" Madame Bourrat reappeared. "Monsieur Nanteuil is not there," she said. "But I got into communication with Monsieur Barbey.... He advised me to wait till to-morrow: he said it was too late in the day to do anything...." "But, will he not intervene to-morrow?" "I don't know. To tell the truth, I am sure Monsieur Barbey thought it very inconsiderate of me to disturb him about a matter in which he takes not the slightest interest." "That's a fact. What possible interest can the bankers take in such a matter?... My advice was absurd!" Fandor rose. As he was seeing his visitor out, he said: "In any case, dear madame, count on me to-morrow morning. I shall call at your house about eleven. If there is anything fresh, we can talk it over!..." * * * * * "Oh, here's Janson-de-Sailly College!... Oh, what detestable remembrances you conjure up!... But--this won't do!... Go it, my boy!... I must play the part!" The plumber, who had just given utterance to these remarks, glanced sharply about him. When he had made sure that there was no one close on his heels, he stepped into the roadway, and started on a zigzag course which seemed likely to upset his balance. Crossing the avenue Henri-Martin, going straight, towards the town hall at the corner of the rue de la Pompe, the good plumber, who was staggering more than a little, began to stutter and stammer in a drunken voice: "_It is the final struggle!_" The passers-by looked round. "They sing the _Internationale_ in the streets now, it seems!" remarked a severe-looking gentleman. The workman turned to this correct personage. "What of it?... Don't you think it a jolly fine thing then?" In a thick voice he continued to sing: "_Let us gather, and on the morrow..._" The severe and correct personage spoke.