ws. It is I, now, who am his guardian
angel. God knows how it will all end."

While listening to this speech, Monsieur Sariette's face took on an
expression of infinite, irreparable, eternal sadness; the sadness of a
mummy. Rising to take his leave, the sorrowful librarian murmured in
Arcade's ear:

"The poor child is very ill. He is delirious."

Maurice called the old man back.

"Do stay, Monsieur Sariette. You shall have a game of bridge with us.
Monsieur Sariette, listen to my advice. Do not do as I did--do not keep
bad company. You will be lost. I shudder at the mere thought. Monsieur
Sariette, do not go yet. I have something very important to ask you.
When you come again, bring me a book on the truth of religion, so that I
may study it. I must restore to my guardian-angel the faith which he has
lost."

CHAPTER XXXI

WHEREIN WE ARE LED TO MARVEL AT THE READINESS WITH WHICH AN
HONEST MAN OF TIMID AND GENTLE NATURE CAN COMMIT A HORRIBLE
CRIME

Profoundly distressed by the dark utterances of young Maurice, Monsieur
Sariette took a motor-omnibus, and went to see Pere Guinardon, his
friend, his only friend, the one person in the whole world whom it gave
him pleasure to see and hear. When Monsieur Sariette entered the shop in
the Rue de Courcelles, Guinardon was alone, dozing in the depths of an
antique arm-chair. His face, surrounded by his curly hair and luxuriant
beard, was crimson in hue. Little violet filaments spread a network
about the fleshy part of his nose, to which the wines of Burgundy had
imparted a purple tint; for there was no longer any disguising the fact,
Pere Guinardon drank. Two feet away from him, on the fair Octavie's
work-table, a rose, all but withered, drooped in an empty vase, and in a
basket a piece of embroidery was lying unfinished and neglected. The
young Octavie's absences from the shop were growing more and more
frequent, and Monsieur Blancmesnil never called when she was not there.
The reason of this was that they were meeting three times a week at five
o'clock in a house close to the Champs Elysees. Pere Guinardon knew
nothing of that. He did not know the full extent of his misfortune, but
he suffered.

Monsieur Sariette shook his old friend by the hand; but he did not
enquire for the young Octavie, for he refused to recognise the
connexion. He would sooner have talked about Zephyrine, who had been so
cruelly deserted, and whom he hoped the old man would