“It cannot be Satan,” said the wife of the concierge, “but it may be conspirators.”
“It is a gang of assassins,” said he, “bringing bodies of victims to bury in the garden.” Just then the man who had hired the pavilion came in; the wife followed him and rushed back pale with terror.
“Go and fetch the police! go quick! They are murdering some one. I heard cries, groans, and chains! Run, if you want to save him from these wretches!”
Hurrying away, the concierge soon re-appeared with the police and two soldiers. They proceeded to the pavilion; the door was locked, and just then a strange cry arrested their attention. They beat at the door ordering it to be opened, which it immediately was by a man, who said—
“What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“What are you about yourself? I am a police officer, and I arrest you in the King’s name as a criminal.”
“You arrest me as a criminal? and for what?” while a burst of laughter was heard inside.
“Come, Monsieur,” said the police official, “I see there is some mistake. What is your name?”
“Meyerbeer, but that does not tell you much.”