"Monsieur Maitland?" he asked the footman, who at one blow dissipated
his excitement by replying with this simple phrase, the only one of which
he had not thought in his frenzy:

"Monsieur is not at home."

"He will be at home to me," replied Boleslas. "I have an appointment
with Madame and Mademoiselle Steno, who are awaiting me."

"Monsieur's orders are strict," replied the servant.

Accustomed, as are all servants entrusted with the defence of an artist's
work, to a certain rigor of orders, he yet hesitated, in the face of the
untruth which Gorka had invented on the spur of the moment, and he was
about to yield to his importunity when some one appeared on the staircase
of the hall. That some one was none other than Florent Chapron. Chance
decreed that the latter should send for a carriage in which to go to
lunch, and that the carriage should be late. At the sound of wheels
stopping at the door, he looked out of one of the windows of his
apartment, which faced the street. He saw Gorka alight. Such a visit,
at such an hour, with the persons who were in the atelier, seemed to him
so dangerous that he ran downstairs immediately. He took up his hat and
his cane, to justify his presence in the hall by the very natural excuse
that he was going out. He reached the middle of the staircase just in
time to stop the servant, who had decided to "go and see," and, bowing to
Boleslas with more formality than usual:

"My brother-in-law is not there, Monsieur," said he; and he added,
turning to the footman, in order to dispose of him in case an altercation
should arise between the importunate visitor and himself, "Nero, fetch me