“Oh, no, I shouldn’t at all care to,—the stuff is too crazy.”
There was a good deal more of talk back and forth about the unconventional advertisement, but I did not betray by the change of a feature that I was the criminal.
In sending in the advertisement I had at the same time written to the editor of the Presse to collect the answers that came in, and, after the lapse of some days, to dispatch them to Klosterneuburg, poste restante, under a certain cipher.
Five days later we were going by the post office on our usual walk.
“Please, aunt,” said I, “let us go in; I want to buy stamps.”
We went in. But at the window, instead of asking for stamps, I inquired, “Is there anything for A—R 25?”
The clerk looked, and handed me a bulky package. My heart leaped into my throat with joy.
“What does that mean?” cried the others.
“You’ll find out at home.”
When we reached home I tore open the envelope and let about sixty or seventy letters fall on the table, all bearing the address Cela n’engage à rien.