his person; his clothes were ill-cut, his trousers bagged, he wore
white stockings at all seasons of the year, a hat with a narrow brim and
laced shoes. He was always complaining of his digestion. His principal
vice was a mania for proposing rural parties during the summer
season, excursions to Montmorency, picnics on the grass, and visits to
creameries on the boulevard du Mont-Parnasse. For the last six months
Dutocq had taken to visiting Mademoiselle Godard from time to time, with
certain views of his own, hoping to discover in her establishment some
female treasure.

Thus Baudoyer had a pair of henchmen in Dutocq and Godard. Monsieur
Saillard, too innocent to judge rightly of Dutocq, was in the habit of
paying him frequent little visits at the office. Young La Billardiere,
the director's son, placed as supernumerary with Baudoyer, made another
member of the clique. The clever heads in the offices laughed much at
this alliance of incapables. Bixiou named Baudoyer, Godard, and Dutocq
a "Trinity without the Spirit," and little La Billardiere the "Pascal
Lamb."

"You are early this morning," said Antoine to Dutocq, laughing.

"So are you, Antoine," answered Dutocq; "you see, the newspapers do come
earlier than you let us have them at the office."

"They did to-day, by chance," replied Antoine, not disconcerted; "they
never come two days together at the same hour."

The two nephews looked at each other as if to say, in admiration of
their uncle, "What cheek he has!"

"Though I make two sous by all his breakfasts," muttered Antoine, as he
heard Monsieur Dutocq close the office door, "I'd give them up to get
that man out of our division."

"Ah, Monsieur Sebastien, you are not the first here to-day," said
Antoine, a quarter of an hour later, to the supernumerary.

"Who is here?" asked the poor lad, turning pale.

"Monsieur Dutocq," answered Laurent.

Virgin natures have, beyond all others, the inexplicable gift of
second-sight, the reason of which lies perhaps in the purity of their
nervous systems, which are, as it were, brand-new. Sebastien had long
guessed Dutocq's hatred to his revered Rabourdin. So that when Laurent
uttered his name a dreadful presentiment took possession of the lad's
mind, and crying out, "I feared it!" he flew like an arrow into the
corridor.

"There is going to be a row in the division," said Antoine, shaking his
white head as he put on his livery. "It is very certain that Monsieur le