"Arrest."
"Do you mean that?"
"I do. If the universal curiosity, which has helped him to preserve his liberty so far, is satisfied, he's all right. If not, if he fails, he'll be locked up. The warrant is out."
I shuddered. Massignac's arrest implied the gravest possible peril to Bérangère.
"And you may be sure," my acquaintance continued, "that he is fully alive to what is hanging over his head and that he is feeling anything but chirpy at heart."
"At heart, perhaps," replied one of the others. "But he doesn't allow it to appear on the surface. There, look at him: did you ever see such swank?"
A louder din had come from the crowd. Below us, Théodore Massignac was walking along the pit and crossing the empty space of the orchestra. He was accompanied by a dozen of those sturdy fellows who composed the male staff of the amphitheatre. He made them sit down on two benches which were evidently reserved for them and, with the most natural air, gave them his instructions. And his gestures so clearly denoted the sense of the orders imparted and expressed so clearly what they would have to do if any one attempted to approach the wall that a loud clamour of protest arose.
Massignac turned towards the audience, without appearing in the least put out, and, with a smiling face, gave a careless shrug of the shoulders, as though to say:
"What's the trouble? I'm taking precautions. Surely I'm entitled to do that!"
And, retaining his bantering geniality, he took a key from his waist-coat pocket, opened a little gate in the railing and entered the last enclosure before the wall.