At length some
one knocked. It was his clerk, whom he had sent for. There was nothing
particular in this man; he was tall rather than big, and very slim.
His gait was precise, his gestures were methodical, and his face was as
impassive as if it had been cut out of a piece of yellow wood. He was
thirty-four years of age and during fifteen years had acted as clerk
to four investigating magistrates in succession. He could hear the most
astonishing things without moving a muscle. His name was Constant.
He bowed to the magistrate, and excused himself for his tardiness. He
had been busy with some book-keeping, which he did every morning; and
his wife had had to send after him.
"You are still in good time," said M. Daburon: "but we shall soon have
plenty of work: so you had better get your paper ready."
Five minutes later, the usher introduced M. Noel Gerdy. He entered
with an easy manner, like an advocate who was well acquainted with the
Palais, and who knew its winding ways. He in no wise resembled, this
morning, old Tabaret's friend; still less could he have been recognized
as Madame Juliette's lover. He was entirely another being, or rather he
had resumed his every-day bearing.
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