“Why is it that when one dreams, one’s dreams are always so unsatisfactory? Whenever I meet a pretty girl in dreamland, she always turns into an old woman when I kiss her, and whenever I find myself in good company, I am either dressed in rags, or, what is worse, not dressed at all. If I go to collect money I always enter by mistake the house of some man to whom I owe a debt, and if I find myself on the stage I am always acting some part, the lines of which I have forgotten.”
“The whole world is unsatisfactory, M. Ferminard, and as dreamland is part of the world, why, I suppose it is unsatisfactory too. Now as to that play of yours whose ending you insisted on describing to me this morning, that is like dreamland and the world—unsatisfactory. The ending does not satisfy me in the least.”
“In what way?”
“I have thought of a better.”
“Oh, you have. Well, please explain to me what you mean.”
“I will, certainly. But first let me see that rope which you told me you had discovered, and the discovery of which gave you the idea for this play of yours.”
“The rope, but what can you want with the rope?”
“I will show you when it is in my hands, or at least I will explain my meaning; come, M. Ferminard, the rope, for without it I cannot show you what I want.”
“Wait, monsieur, and I will get it.”
In a moment one end of the precious rope was in Rochefort’s hands. He pulled it through into his cell, noted the length, the thickness and the knots upon it, and was satisfied.