“I am afraid of your pistol, will you not go first?”
He went first and entered at once the only room, for there was no hall. In the mean time Madame Laroque had found out that there was no back door, and had come into the lower flat and reinspected it, looking under everything.
“Open that closet!” said the constable, as he levelled his pistol at the door.
Mademoiselle threw open the door and sprang away, with her hands over her ears. There was no one there; neither was there any one under the bed.
“Open that trunk!” eying the little leather-covered box.
“Monsieur, you will respect—but—as you will.” She stooped over the trunk and threw back the lid; on the top was a dainty white skirt, embroidered beautifully. The little milliner was blushing violently.
“That will do!” said the constable. “There is no one there.”
“Get out of the road!” he cried to the knot of people who had collected at the door. “I have been for my wife’s bonnet; it is not finished.” But the people looked at his pistol, which he had forgotten to put away. He went across to the widow’s.
“Look here!” he said, “you had better stop this or I’ll have the law on you—no words now! Making a fool of me before the people—getting me to put on my coat and bring my pistol to frighten a cat from under the stove. No words now!”
“Monsieur Cuerrier,” inquired Madame Laroque that night, “who is it that Mademoiselle Viau writes to?”