He succeeded at last, however, but even when he had reached
the portico on the left side of the building, the worthy fellow,
standing up, still shouted at the top of his voice: "At M. Trigault's
house--don't forget--Father Papillon--No. 998--1,000 less 2--"
Lecoq had entered the left wing of the Palais. He climbed the stairs
till he had reached the third floor, and was about to enter the long,
narrow, badly-lighted corridor known as the Galerie de l'Instruction,
when, finding a doorkeeper installed behind a heavy oaken desk, he
remarked: "M. d'Escorval is, of course, in his office?"
The man shook his head. "No," said he, "M. d'Escorval is not here this
morning, and he won't be here for several weeks."
"Why not! What do you mean?"
"Last night, as he was alighting from his carriage, at his own door, he
had a most unfortunate fall, and broke his leg."
IX
Some men are wealthy. They own a carriage drawn by a pair of
high-stepping horses, and driven by a coachman in stylish livery; and
as they pass by, leaning back on comfortable cushions, they become the
object of many an envious glance. Sometimes, however, the coachman has
taken a drop too much, and upsets the carriage; perhaps the horses
run away and a general smash ensues; or, maybe, the hitherto fortunate
owner, in a moment of absent-mindedness, misses the step, and fractures
his leg on the curbstone. Such accidents occur every day; and their
long list should make humble foot-passengers bless the lowly lot which
preserves them from such peril.
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