“Thank you,” said he: “I will send for one. What is this paper that has just fallen out of your valise?”
“My port d’armes.”
“Your license to hunt! You have a license to hunt? Why did you not tell me so before? Let me see it.”
“Because you did not ask me for it.”
M. Bézieux read and reread the paper, and examined the description closely. As Eusebe had two black spots on his left cheek, it was not difficult to discover that the license was his.
“My young friend,” said the magistrate, “a thousand pardons for my questions. It was my duty to do as I have done. You are en règle: I have nothing more to say to you. You are at liberty to go. With your inexperience, you will, sooner or later, certainly be duped. Should you get into trouble, remember that you have in me a friend.”
“Sir,” said Eusebe, “you are very kind, and I am greatly obliged.” He took his valise, and, bowing, retired slowly. On the stairs he stopped an instant, then, in a loud voice, as though some one were listening, he said,—
“This is certainly a very singular—a most incomprehensible—affair! This man, who calls himself a minister of justice, sees me do two good deeds and arrests me, saying that I am either a fool or a madman, and it is only on seeing my license to hunt that he is convinced of his error. Now, the license ought, on the contrary, to have confirmed him in his opinion, and made him believe that I was really insane; for I did a very stupid thing the day I gave the Mayor of Moustier twenty-five francs for the permission to kill birds that were none of his.”