“But he’s mad!” shouted Bocardon, in his great voice. “Euphémie! Euphémie! Come here!”
At the sight of Euphémie, pale and shivering with apprehension, Bondon sank upon a bench by the wall. He stared at her as if she were a ghost.
“I don’t understand,” he murmured, faintly, looking like a trapped hare at Aristide Pujol, who, debonair, hands on hips, stood a little way apart.
“Nor I, either,” cried Bocardon.
A great light dawned on Zette’s beautiful face. “I do understand.” She exchanged glances with Aristide. He came forward.
“It’s very simple,” said he, taking the stage with childlike exultation. “I go to find Bondon this morning to kill him. In the train I have a sudden inspiration, a revelation from Heaven. It is not Zette but Euphémie that is the bonne amie of Bondon. I laugh, and frighten a long-toothed English old maid out of her wits. Shall I get out at Tarascon and return to Nîmes and tell you, or shall I go on? I decide to go on. I make my plan. Ah, but when I make a plan, it’s all in a second, a flash, pfuit! At Avignon I see a pair of handcuffs. I buy them. I spend hours tracking that animal there. At last I find him at the station about to start for Lyon. I tell him I am a police agent. I let him see the handcuffs, which convince him. I tell him Euphémie, in consequence of the discovery of his letter, has committed suicide. There is a procès-verbal at which he is wanted. I summon him to accompany me in the name of the law—and there he is.”
“and you!” shouted bocardon, falling on aristide; “i must embrace you also”
“Then that letter was not for my wife?” said Bocardon, who was not quick-witted.
“But, no, imbecile!” cried Aristide.