Part 14

At this moment Zette came running up the passage.

"What is all this noise about?"

"Ah, madame!" cried Bondon, eagerly, "I am heart-broken. You who are so kind--let me see her."

"Hein?" exclaimed Bocardon, in stupefaction.

"See whom?" asked Zette.

"My dear dead one. My dear Euphémie, who has committed suicide."

"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."

"Then that letter was not for my wife?" said Bocardon, who was not quick-witted.

"But, no, imbecile!" cried Aristide.

Bocardon hugged his wife in his vast embrace. The tears ran down his cheeks.

"Ah, my little Zette, my little Zette, will you ever pardon me?"

"Oui, je te pardonne, gros jaloux," said Zette.

"And you!" shouted Bocardon, falling on Aristide; "I must embrace you also." He kissed him on both cheeks, in his expansive way, and thrust him towards Zette.

"You can also kiss my wife. It is I, Bocardon, who command it."

The fire of a not ignoble pride raced through Aristide's veins. He was a hero. He knew it. It was a moment worth living.

The embraces and other expressions of joy and gratitude being temporarily suspended, attention was turned to the unheroic couple who up to then had said not one word to each other. The explanation of their conduct, too, was simple, apparently. They were in love. She had no dowry. He could not marry her, as his parents would not give their consent. She, for her part, was frightened to death by the discovery of the letter, lest Bocardon should turn her out of the house.

"What dowry will satisfy your parents?"

"Nothing less than twelve thousand francs."

"I give it," said Bocardon, reckless in his newly-found happiness. "Marry her."

The clock in the bureau struck four. Aristide pulled out his watch.

"Saperlipopette!" he cried, and disappeared like a flash into the street.

"But what's the matter with him?" shouted Bocardon, in amazement.

Zette went to the door. "He's running as if he had the devil at his heels."