“Let us return to Beausire,” she said, piqued at his indifference; “why have you not brought him here? it would have been a charity. He is free——”
“Because,” replied Cagliostro, “Beausire has too much imagination, and has also embroiled himself with the police.”
“What has he done?”
“Oh, a delightful trick, a most ingenious idea; I call it a joke, but matter-of-fact people—and you know how matter-of-fact M. de Crosne can be—call it a theft.”
“A theft!” cried Oliva, frightened. “Is he arrested?”
“No, but he is pursued.”
“And is he in danger?”
“That I cannot tell you; he is well hunted for, and if you were together, the chances of his being taken would be doubled.”
“Oh, yes, he must hide, poor fellow; I will hide too; let me leave France, monsieur. Pray render me this service; for if I remain shut up here, I shall end by committing some imprudence.”
“What do you call imprudence?”