“What o'clock?” he asked with a yawn. Then a sudden groan escaped him, and he put his hand to his head. “Thousand devils!” he swore, “what a headache!”
But La Boulaye was not there on any mission of sympathy, nor did he waste words in conveying his news.
“The coach is gone,” he announced emphatically.
“Coach? What coach?” asked the Captain, knitting his brows.
“What coach?” echoed La Boulaye testily. “How many coaches were there? Why, the Bellecour coach; the coach with the treasure.”
At that Charlot grew very wide-awake. He forgot his headache and his interest in the time of day.
“Gone?” he bellowed. “How gone? Pardieu, it is not possible!”
“Look for yourself,” was La Boulaye's answer as he waved his hand in the direction of the window. “I don't know what manner of watch your men can have kept that such a thing should have come about. Probably, knowing you ill a-bed, they abused the occasion by getting drunk, and probably they are still sleeping it off. The place is silent enough.”
But Tardivet scarcely heard him. From his window he was staring into the yard below, too thunderstruck by its emptiness to even have recourse to profanity. Stable door and porte-cochere alike stood open. He turned suddenly and made for his coat. Seizing it, he thrust his hand in one pocket after another. At last:
“Treachery!” he cried, and letting the garment fall to the ground, he turned upon La Boulaye a face so transfigured by anger that it looked little like the usually good-humoured countenance of Captain Tardivet “My keys have been stolen. By St. Guillotine, I'll have the thief hanged.”