"Come, my friends, we shall leave this imbecile to himself," laughed the Baron.
Le Bour sprang past him and confronted us.
"Eh ben, my fine gentlemen," he snarled, "you'll not get away so easily. I demand, in the name of the law, your hunting permits. Come, allons! All of you!"
At the same instant he tore open his blouse and displayed, to our dismay, an oval brass plaque bearing his name and the number 1247.
"There!" cried the old man, white and trembling with rage. "There's my full commission as guard."
My companion with the gloves next to me fidgeted nervously and coughed. I saw the Vicomte turn a little pale. Tanrade shrugged his shoulders. Monsieur le Curé's face wore an expression of dignified gravity. Not once, however, had Le Bour's eyes met his own. It was evident that he reverently excluded the curé from the affair.
The Vicomte looked uncomfortable enough. The truth was, he was not known to be at the hunt. The Vicomtesse was shrewd when it came to the question of his whereabouts. A procès-verbal meant publicity; naturally the Vicomtesse would know. It might even reach the adorable ears of Mademoiselle Rosalie, of the corps de ballet, who imagined the Vicomte safe with his family. The Baron was fuming, but he did not speak.
"Your permits!" reiterated Le Bour, flourishing his license.
There was an awkward silence; not a few in the party had left their permits at home.