At the office the two men seemed to live on good enough terms. A sort
of tacit pact was entered into between them to conceal from their
colleagues their internal warfare. They addressed each other as "my dear
Cachelin," "my dear Lesable;" they even feigned to laugh and talk together
as men who were satisfied and happy in their domestic relations.
Lesable and Maze, for their part, comported themselves in the presence
of each other with the ceremonious politeness of adversaries who had met
in battle.
The duel they had escaped, but whose shadow had chilled them, exacted
of them an exaggerated courtesy, a more marked consideration, and perhaps
a secret desire for reconciliation, born of the vague fear of a new
complication. Their attitude was recognised and approved as that of men
of the world, who had had an affair of honour. They saluted each other
from a distance with severe gravity, and with a flourish of hats that was
graceful and dignified. They did not speak, their pride preventing either
from making the first advances. But one day, Lesable, whom the Chief
demanded to see immediately, to show his zeal, started with a great rush
through the lobby and ran right into the stomach of an employee. It was
Maze. They recoiled before each other, and Lesable exclaimed with eager
politeness: "I hope I have not hurt you. Monsieur?"