At a little after three o'clock the small and dilapidated hotel omnibus drove up before the Hôtel de la Curatterie, and from it descended Aristide Pujol, radiant-eyed, and a scrubby little man with a goatee beard, pince-nez, and a dome-like forehead, who, pale and trembling, seemed stricken with a great fear. It was Bondon. Together they entered the little hall. As soon as Bocardon saw his enemy his eyes blazed with fury, and, uttering an inarticulate roar, he rushed out of the bureau with clenched fists murderously uplifted. The terrified Bondon shrank into a corner, protected by Aristide, who, smiling like an angel of peace, intercepted the onslaught of the huge man. "Be calm, my good Bocardon, be calm." But Bocardon would not be calm. He found his voice. "Ah, scoundrel! Miscreant! Wretch! Traitor!" When his vocabulary of vituperation and his breath failed him, he paused and mopped his forehead. Bondon came a step or two forward. "I know, monsieur, I have all the wrong on my side. Your anger is justifiable. But I never dreamt of the disastrous effect of my acts. Let me see her, my good M. Bocardon, I beseech you." "Let you see her?" said Bocardon, growing purple in the face. At this moment Zette came running up the passage. "What is all this noise about?" "Ah, madame!" cried Bondon, eagerly, "I am heart-broken. You who are so kind--let me see her." "_Hein_?" exclaimed Bocardon, in stupefaction. "See whom?" asked Zette. "My dear dead one. My dear Euphémie, who has committed suicide." "But he's mad!" shouted Bocardon, in his great voice. "Euphémie! Euphémie! Come here!" At the sight of Euphémie, pale and shivering with apprehension, Bondon sank upon a bench by the wall. He stared at her as if she were a ghost. "I don't understand," he murmured, faintly, looking like a trapped hare at Aristide Pujol, who, debonair, hands on hips, stood a little way apart. "Nor I, either," cried Bocardon. A great light dawned on Zette's beautiful face. "I do understand." She exchanged glances with Aristide. He came forward.