"What has become of this baron?" "He is playing Hippolyte, monsieur le comte; he is on the stage at this moment, and---- But, stay, here he is himself, monsieur le comte." At this moment, in fact, Dubourg rushed into the room, crying: "Come on, Thésée; we're waiting for you, to begin the third act." But he stopped short when he saw the count, who exclaimed: "I was sure of it! It's that scamp Dubourg!" Ménard opened his eyes at that, and Dubourg contented himself with bowing low to Frédéric's father. "Come, Monsieur Ménard, follow me," continued the count; "take off that costume, which you should never have put on, and let us leave this place at once." The unhappy tutor did not wait for the order to be repeated; in an instant, he had cast aside the tunic and trousers; then he resumed his own clothes, took his hat, and stood humbly before the count, who said to Dubourg: "As for you, monsieur, whose company has been so profitable to my son, remember that if I do not find Frédéric soon, my wrath will fall on you.--Come, Monsieur Ménard." A moment later, the count and the tutor were in the carriage, from which the horses had not been taken; and they drove rapidly away from the inn toward Grenoble, where the count hoped to obtain news of his son. Meanwhile, Dubourg, somewhat bewildered by what had taken place, considered what was likely to happen to him; the audience was waiting for Thésée, without whom the play could not go on, and the good people of Voreppe seemed disposed to be unamiable when they were dissatisfied. On the other hand, he had received from the manager his own pay and Ménard's; and now that Ménard had gone, how was their agreement to be kept? While he reflected, a confused noise arose in the street. Dubourg ran to the window and saw Floridor approaching with several of the spectators, who were swearing and making a great uproar, declaring that the two Poles should act or they would thrash them. "They will act," cried Floridor; "they will act, messieurs; I paid them in advance." Dubourg realized the danger that threatened him; he hesitated whether he should give back the money, whether he should excuse himself by disclosing his colleague's departure, or whether he should leave the manager to settle with his audience. The last plan was the most agreeable to him; he was afraid of being beaten, even if he did return the money; moreover, he considered that his performance of Hippolyte was well worth what he had received. So he ran to another window, looking on the open country, and, hearing the crowd enter the innyard, he no longer wavered; he jumped down into the sorrel, picked himself up, wrapped himself in his cloak, and ran across the fields as if the whole town were at his heels.