“What misfortune?”
“The robbery of which M. Fauvel was the victim. It has been in everyone’s mouth, and you must have heard of it.”
“Ah, yes, yes; I remember. His cashier ran off with three hundred and fifty thousand francs. Pardieu! It is a thing that almost daily happens. But, as to discovering any connection between this robbery and my play, that is another matter.”
M. de Clameran made no reply. A nudge from Lagors had calmed him as if by enchantment.
He looked quietly at the clown, and seemed to regret having uttered the significant words forced from him by angry excitement.
“Very well,” he finally said in his usual haughty tone; “I must have been mistaken. I accept your explanation.”
But the clown, hitherto so humble and silly-looking, seemed to take offence at the word, and, assuming a defiant attitude, said:
“I have not made, nor do I intend making, any explanation.”
“Monsieur,” began De Clameran.
“Allow me to finish, if you please. If, unintentionally, I have offended the wife of a man whom I highly esteem, it is his business to seek redress, and not yours. Perhaps you will tell me he is too old to demand satisfaction: if so, let him send one of his sons. I saw one of them in the ball-room to-night; let him come. You asked me who I am; in return I ask you who are you—you who undertake to act as Mme. Fauvel’s champion? Are you her relative, friend, or ally? What right have you to insult her by pretending to discover an allusion to her in a play invented for amusement?”