At this moment, Pipelet was about placing his right foot on the landing-place of the first story; he remained petrified, his head turned toward the bottom of the stairs, his mouth open, his eyes fixed, his foot raised.
"Alfred!" cried Mrs. Pipelet anew.
"Anastasia is below—she is not above, occupied in being sick," said Pipelet to himself, faithful to his logical argumentation. "But then this unknown and masculine voice, who threatened to unlace her, is an impostor. He has been playing a cruel game with my emotions! What is his design? There is something extraordinary going on here! No matter: do your duty, happen what may! After having responded to my wife, I shall mount to enlighten this mystery and verify this voice."
Pipelet descended, very much troubled, and found himself face to face with his wife.
"It is you?" said he.
"Well! yes, it is me; who would you have it to be?"
"It is you—my eyes do not deceive me!"
"Ah, now! what is the matter, that makes your big eyes look like billiard balls? You look at me as if you were going to eat me."
"Your presence reveals to me that something has been passing here— things—"
"What things? Come, give me the key of the lodge; why do you leave it? I come from the office of the Normandy diligences, where I went in a hack, to carry the trunk of M. Bradamanti, who did not wish it to be known that he was about to leave town to-night, and who could not depend on that little scoundrel Tortillard (Hoppy)—and he is right!"