The detectives, who had already scrutinized everybody in the room, did not answer Sans-Cravate; but one of them went to the table under which the ex-inspector of the Market had taken refuge, and dragged him forth from his hiding-place by the legs.
"This is the gentleman we're looking for," he said.—"Come, up with you! you must go with us!"
"Messieurs," cried Laboussole, trying to bury his nose in his cravat, "this is a mistake, I assure you; I must be the victim of an unfortunate resemblance. I know more than twenty men who look like me."
"No, no, you're the man we want; come, off you go—and step lively!"
"What are you arresting this man for?" demanded Sans-Cravate; while Jean Ficelle pulled him by the jacket and whispered in his ear:
"Defend him! thrash the curs! you're strong enough."
"Because he's a thief!" replied the detective, pushing Laboussole toward the stairs.
Paul glanced at Sans-Cravate, who turned pale and neither moved nor spoke. The word thief had sobered him in an instant.
IX
A STUDIO PARTY.—A FETICH.—THE BURGUNDIAN
It is very disagreeable to be disappointed in one's expectations; but the disappointment is especially keen after an amorous rendezvous: you have dreamed of happiness in its most seductive form; your imagination has conceived the most touching pictures, the most gratifying situations. All these thoughts have heated your brain and your mind—when you have one—and your passions at least, in default of a mind; and when all your anticipations result in nothing at all, you beat a retreat in dire distress, like the crow in the fable. But if, instead of the kisses that you hoped to steal, you have received a blow, you are quite justified in being vexed and angry, as well as distressed.