"Who should he be, monsieur?" cried, with great pertness, Madame Rosalie Caumartin, coming to the relief, with the generosity of her sex.—"This is Monsieur Lofe—Anglais celebre. What have you to say against him?"
"He has got five hundred francs of mine!" cried the epicier.
The policeman scanned Mr. Love, with great attention. "So you are in
Paris again?—Hein!—vous jouez toujours votre role!
"Ma foi!" said Mr. Love, boldly; "I don't understand what monsieur means; my character is well known—go and inquire it in London—ask the Secretary of Foreign Affairs what is said of me—inquire of my Ambassador—demand of my—"
"Votre passeport, monsieur?"
"It is at home. A gentleman does not carry his passport in his pocket when he goes to a ball!"
"I will call and see it—au revoir! Take my advice and leave Paris; I think I have seen you somewhere!"
"Yet I have never had the honour to marry monsieur!" said Mr. Love, with a polite bow.
In return for his joke, the policeman gave Mr. Love one look-it was a quiet look, very quiet; but Mr. Love seemed uncommonly affected by it; he did not say another word, but found himself outside the house in a twinkling. Monsieur Favart turned round and saw the Pole making himself as small as possible behind the goodly proportions of Madame Beavor.
"What name does that gentleman go by?"