He looked fearfully round the empty hall and at the windows, black
against the night. Under the patter of the rain he heard footsteps--
distinctly. He went hastily clumping down the hall, and along the
passage to the kitchen.

His wife was setting his supper on the table.

"My God!" he said. "I haven't been so frightened since '70." And he
mopped his glistening forehead with a dish-cloth. It was not a clean
dish-cloth; but he did not care.

"Frightened? What of?" said his wife.

"Burglars! Cut-throats!" said Firmin.

He told her of the fears of M. Gournay-Martin, and of his own
appointment to the honourable and dangerous post of guard of the
chateau.

"God save us!" said his wife. "You lock the door of that beastly
hall, and come into the kitchen. Burglars won't bother about the
kitchen."

"But the master's treasures!" protested Firmin. "He confided them to
me. He said so distinctly."

"Let the master look after his treasures himself," said Madame
Firmin, with decision. "You've only one throat; and I'm not going to
have it cut. You sit down and eat your supper. Go and lock that door
first, though."