“At the _café_!” cried Mlle. Trapenard. “For the fifteen years I have been with him I have never seen him open a paper but once.” “That man,” concluded Father Carbonnet, “has some trouble which overheats his blood. And trouble you see, Mlle. Mariette, is, so to speak, like the tun of Adelaide, it has no bottom. For a fact, it commenced with the summons of the judge and the visit of the lady in black. And do you know what I think? Perhaps it is about a son of his who is doing badly.” “_Mon Dieu_!” exclaimed Mariette, “he have a son?” “And why not?” continued the _concierge_, winking one eye behind his spectacles; “don’t you think he gallivanted around like other folks when he was young?” Then he communicated to Mlle. Trapenard the frightful reports which were going about in the _rez-de-chaussées_ concerning poor M. Sixte, since his visible change of habits. All the malicious tongues agreed in attributing the trouble of the philosopher to the citation of the judge. The washerwoman pretended to have it from a countryman of M. Sixte, that his fortune proceeded from a trust which his father had abused, and that he would have to return it. The butcher told those who would listen that the savant was married, and that his wife had made a terrible scene and was going to bring a suit against him. The coal merchant had insinuated, that the worthy man was the brother of an assassin whose execution under the false name of Campi still tormented the popular mind. “I will never go to their houses again,” moaned Mlle. Trapenard; “is it possible to imagine such horrors!” And the poor girl left the lodge completely heartbroken. This great creature, high in color, strong as an ox in spite of her fifty-five years, with her big shoulders, her blue wool stockings which she had herself knit, and her cap fitting closely over her compact chignon, felt a strong affection for her master because all the different elements of her frank and simple nature were involved in it. She respected the gentleman, the educated man who was often mentioned in the papers. She cherished, in the old bachelor who never examined his accounts, and left her mistress of the house, an assured source of comfort for her old age. Finally, this solid and robust creature protected the man, feeble in body and so _simplet_, as she said, that a child ten years old might have cheated him. Such words mortified her pride at the same time that the sudden change of humor of the philosopher rendered their residence together uncomfortable. From genuine affection she became anxious because her master did not eat or sleep. She saw that he was sad, anxious, and ill, but she could do nothing to make him cheerful, nor even guess the cause of his melancholy and agitation. What did she think when, one afternoon in the month of March, M. Sixte came in about five o’clock, after having had his breakfast outside, and said to her: “Is the valise in good order, Mariette?”