"Goodness!" said Theophrastus without raising his voice. "How did my portrait get into this house?"
"Your portrait?" cried Adolphe. "Are you sure?"
"Who could be surer than I?" said Theophrastus calmly.
"Well—well—" said Adolphe Lecamus in a choking voice, his face contorted by an expression of the most painful emotion. "This portrait, which is your portrait, is the portrait of that great eighteenth-century king of thieves, Cartouche!"
Theophrastus stared at the portrait with eyes that opened and opened as a sickly pallor overspread his anguished face; a little grunt broke from his parted lips, and he dropped to the ground in a dead faint.
Adolphe dropped on his knees beside him, unfastened his collar, and slapped his hands vigorously. Then he blew out the candle, turned the portrait with its face to the wall, and opened the window.
Theophrastus was a long time recovering his senses. When he did, his first words were:
"On no account tell my wife, Adolphe!"