OH NO, ADRIEN SAYS, ALARMED: We are not here as patients!
Madeleine shakes her head. A terrible mistake is about to be made. The matron waits beside the door, rustling her skirts.
Then why are you here? The director squints at them from across the expanse of his formidable desk.
This is a good question. As the matron ushered them down the gleaming hallways, it became clear to the photographer that rescuing M. Pujol would require a great deal of cleverness and strategy. The wheels of the little wagon had squealed upon the polished floor; a series of doors had stretched far away into the distance. The flatulent man had not, as they expected, been waiting for them in either a tower or a dungeon, rattling his chains and crying out their names.
Well, Adrien says weakly. I am a photographer.
He indicates the wagon resting beside him: I take photographs.