“What do you want me to do?” asked the brigadier stolidly.
“Do?” cried Aristide. “Do you think I want you to kiss them and cover them with roses? What do you generally do with thieves in Perpignan?”
“Arrest them,” said the brigadier.
“Eh bien!” said Aristide. Then he paused—possibly the drama of the situation striking him. “No, wait. Go and find them. Don’t take your eyes off them. I will run and fetch Monsieur le Maire and he will identify his property—et puis nous aurons la scène à faire.”
The stout brigadier grunted an assent and rolled monumentally down the Avenue. Aristide, his pulses throbbing, his heart exulting, ran to the Mayor’s house. He was rather a panting triumph than a man. He had beaten the police of Perpignan. He had discovered the thief. He was the hero of the town. Soon would the wedding bells be playing.... He envied the marble of the future statue. He would like to be on the pedestal himself.
He dashed past the maid-servant who opened the door and burst into the prim salon. Madame Coquereau was alone, just preparing to retire for the night. Mademoiselle Stéphanie had already gone to bed.
“Mon Dieu, what is all this?” she cried.
“Madame,” shouted he, “glorious news. I have found the thief!”
He told his tale. Where was Monsieur le Maire?
“He has not yet come back from the café.”