“Well, monsieur?” said the impatient Ferminard.
“Well, M. Ferminard, now I have the rope in my hands I will tell you exactly how your play is going to end, in reality. The count—that is myself, for since you have put me into your play I feel myself justified in acting in it—the count is going to pull his bed to the window of his cell, tie this precious rope to the bedpost, and, crawling out of the window and dangling like a spider, he is going to descend to the ground. He will not remain stuck on a ledge, as in your version of the play, he will reach the ground—then he will pick up his heels and run to Paris, and there he will pull M. de Choiseul’s nose—or make friends with him.”
“But you cannot,” replied Ferminard, not knowing exactly how to take the other.
“And why cannot I?”
“Because, monsieur, the bar of your window would permit you, perhaps, to lower your rope, but it would prevent you from following it.”
“No, M. Ferminard, it would not.”
“Ah, well, then, it must be a most accommodating bar and have altered considerably in strength since you spoke to me of it first.”
“It has.”
“In what way?”
“Why, it has been filed almost in two.”