“No, no; you won’t lock that door!” cried Firmin.
“But I certainly will,” said Jean. “You’d better come and get a gun.”
They went to the gun-room, Firmin still protesting against the locking of the door between the drawing-rooms and the hall. He chose his gun; and they went into the kitchen. Jean took two bottles of wine, a rich-looking pie, a sweet, and carried them to the drawing-room. He came back into the hall, gathered together an armful of papers and magazines, and went back to the drawing-room. Firmin kept trotting after him, like a little dog with a somewhat heavy footfall.
On the threshold of the drawing-room Jean paused and said: “The important thing with burglars is to fire first, old cock. Good-night. Pleasant dreams.”
He shut the door and turned the key. Firmin stared at the decorated panels blankly. The beauty of the scheme of decoration did not, at the moment, move him to admiration.
He looked fearfully round the empty hall and at the windows, black against the night. Under the patter of the rain he heard footsteps—distinctly. He went hastily clumping down the hall, and along the passage to the kitchen.
His wife was setting his supper on the table.
“My God!” he said. “I haven’t been so frightened since ’70.” And he mopped his glistening forehead with a dish-cloth. It was not a clean dish-cloth; but he did not care.
“Frightened? What of?” said his wife.
“Burglars! Cut-throats!” said Firmin.