"Uncle, I have some pictures to return to you; they are now at
Monsieur Hochon's. Will you be kind enough to come over some day and
identify them."
Saying these last words in a curt tone, lieutenant-colonel Philippe
Bridau departed. The tone of his visit made, if possible, a deeper
impression on Flore's mind, and also on that of Max, than the shock
they had felt at the first sight of that horrible campaigner. As soon
as Philippe had slammed the door, with the violence of a disinherited
heir, Max and Flore hid behind the window-curtains to watch him as he
crossed the road, to the Hochons'.
"What a vagabond!" exclaimed Flore, questioning Max with a glance of
her eye.
"Yes; unfortunately there were men like him in the armies of the
Emperor; I sent seven to the shades at Cabrera," answered Gilet.
"I do hope, Max, that you won't pick a quarrel with that fellow," said
Mademoiselle Brazier.
"He smelt so of tobacco," complained the old man.
"He was smelling after your money-bags," said Flore, in a peremptory
tone. "My advice is that you don't let him into the house again."
"I'd prefer not to," replied Rouget.
"Monsieur," said Gritte, entering the room where the Hochon family
were all assembled after breakfast, "here is the Monsieur Bridau you
were talking about."
Philippe made his entrance politely, in the midst of a dead silence
caused by general curiosity. Madame Hochon shuddered from head to foot
as she beheld the author of all Agathe's woes and the murderer of good
old Madame Descoings.
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