Sans-Cravate felt that his throat was parched and that he had no saliva in his mouth; some instants passed before he could articulate a word, but at last he stammered: "Monsieur, it is--it is about--about monsieur your son." "My son!" cried Monsieur Vermoncey, who instantly recalled the first time that Paul had come to see him, and feared that another duel was on the carpet. "My son--what has happened to him?--is he in danger? Speak!" "No, monsieur; no, he is not in danger; and when I say that it's about him--I should say that I have come on my own account, that it's myself who---- _Sacrédié!_--excuse me, monsieur, but I am so worked up--it ain't fear--but it makes me feel queer. One minute, monsieur; my mind is coming back, and, after all, why shouldn't I dare to speak to you? you are an honorable man. I'm a miserable fool to tremble so--now, it's all over!" Monsieur Vermoncey looked at Sans-Cravate with more interest, and waited with some curiosity for him to explain himself. "My name is Étienne Renaud," the messenger continued, in a firm voice; "I come from Auvergne; I came to Paris to be a messenger, and they have given me the name of Sans-Cravate here; it's a nickname of no consequence, and I don't mind it. My regular stand is on the corner of Rue du Helder and the boulevard." "I remember now that I have seen you there," said Monsieur Vermoncey, "and that you have a young man named Paul for your comrade. Have you come to give me news of him?" Sans-Cravate made a wry face at the name of Paul, and continued: