latest intelligence! Ha! ha! ha!” And off he went again, falling back in his chair, and laughing till the tears rolled down his cheeks.
The reporter was in a terrible state. He had not the faintest notion what the fun was about, and he had really joined in it till he could laugh no more. One thing was clear: somebody had done something which M. le Maire thought extremely clever and was highly diverted at, and that he—the reporter—had the credit of.
“Tell me, how did you do it?” said M. Gombard, again recovering himself and mopping his face, that was now as red as the handkerchief.
“Really, M. le Maire, I—I don’t quite understand,” said the reporter, smiling and trying to look at once confused and knowing.
“Come, come, no more of this! Tell it out like a good fellow; let me have the fag-end of the fun at any rate. How did you manage to give them all the slip?”
“Positively, monsieur, there is some mistake. I don’t see—I don’t understand—” stammered out the reporter.
M. Gombard gave a tremendous gasp, as if the laughter were still in him and it required a huge effort to keep it down.
“Well, well,” he said, “I won’t press you, but I think you might have trusted me; we are old friends now. However, keep your secret and accept my best compliments. You missed your vocation, though; you ought to have been a diplomatist. I see no reason after this—after this”—here he began to shake again and brought out the cotton handkerchief—“why you should not be minister some day. Vous irez loin, mon cher—vous irez loin!”
There was a knock at the door. The two men stood up.
“M. le Maire, I am to understand that you are rather glad than otherwise of this—this mysterious disappearance?” said the reporter, with some hesitation.