I did not venture to admit that I was far from sharing this opinion and I confined myself to warning the Queen that her mother was anxious.
"Then let us hurry back as fast as we can," she said, her face suddenly becoming overcast.
And I have no doubt that Her Majesty, on returning, was soundly scolded.
Strangely enough, I was able to lay my hand on "the black man" on the evening of the very same day. It was a very clear night, with the moon shining on the snow-clad mountains, and I resolved to go down to Aix on foot, instead of using the funicular railway. I therefore took the path that led through the wood; and, on reaching a glade at a few yards from the royal villa, I perceived a shadow that appeared to be hiding behind the trees.
"There's the famous black man," I thought.
But, as the shadow had all the air of an animal of the human species, I also contemplated the possible presence of an anarchist charged to watch the approaches to the royal residence. I took out my revolver and shouted:
"Who goes there?"
"I, monsieur le commissaire!" replied a familiar voice, while the shadow took shape, emerged from the trees, stepped forward and gave the military salute.
I then recognised one of my own inspectors, whom I had instructed to go the rounds of the precincts of the Queens' chalet nightly. He was the individual who had been taken for "the black man." However, he seemed none the worse for it.