"This very day, in the escort of Mohammed-Ben-Omar, a sort of Pasha, you know, and to-night he slipped on the stairs and wrenched his ankle. Take another glass, friend. Well, as I was saying, he was asked to this soirée at the banker's and had to write a refusal. As he lies on his sofa, and is likely to lie there for some little time, this note I must deliver."
Coucon did not seem to hear what his friend was saying, but suddenly exclaimed to an innocent looking bourgeois, at another table:
"What are you staring at?"
In vain did the man stammer that he was not even looking at them. One word led to another until a hot quarrel was in progress, the police were called in, and Galaret was arrested.
"Give me your note," said Coucon, in the most obliging manner, "I will see that it is delivered."
And he dashed out of the shop with suspicious alacrity. "You are a fool, Coucon," he said to himself, "if you don't manage to deliver your own note at the same time!"
Our readers must not suppose that Coucon was so simple as to think of penetrating the Laisangy salons, even with the note he had obtained in so abominable a manner from his friend. The plan he had devised was more audacious and more sure. Ten minutes later the former Zouave entered the shop of a costumer in the Rue de Pélétere. And in five minutes more he sallied forth a magnificent Bedouin, draped in white and wearing an enormous turban. He called out to the astonished coachman:
"Rue de Rivoli! and drive fast!"