“What!”
“Yes, upon my word, it’s gone . . . somebody’s taken it from me.”
He burst into a peal of laughter, a laughter which, this time, was free from all bitterness.
Victoire flew out at him:
“Laugh away!... Putting me in such a predicament!...”
“How can I help laughing? You must confess that it’s funny. It’s no longer a tragedy that we’re acting, but a fairy-tale, as much a fairy-tale as Puss in Boots or Jack and the Beanstalk. I must write it when I get a few weeks to myself: The Magic Stopper; or, The Mishaps of Poor Arsène.”
“Well . . . who has taken it from you?”
“What are you talking about?... It has flown away . . . vanished from my pocket: hey presto, begone!”
He gave the old servant a gentle push and, in a more serious tone:
“Go home, Victoire, and don’t upset yourself. Of course, some one saw you give me the stopper and took advantage of the crowd in the shop to pick my pocket of it. That only shows that we are watched more closely than I thought and by adversaries of the first rank. But, once more, be easy. Honest men always come by their own.... Have you anything else to tell me?”