# The Teeth of the Tiger/Chapter 13

The fourth mysterious letter! The fourth of those letters "posted by the devil and delivered by the devil," as one of the newspapers expressed it!
We all of us remember the really extraordinary agitation of the public as the night of the twenty-fifth of May drew near. And fresh news increased this interest to a yet higher degree.
People heard in quick succession of the arrest of Sauverand, the flight of his accomplice, Florence Levasseur, Don Luis Perenna's secretary, and the inexplicable disappearance of Perenna himself, whom they insisted, for the best of reasons, on identifying with Arsène Lupin.
The police, assured from this moment of victory and having nearly all the actors in the tragedy in their power, had gradually given way to indiscretion; and, thanks to the particulars revealed to this or that journalist, the public knew of Don Luis's change of attitude, suspected his passion for Florence Levasseur and the real cause of his right-about-face, and thrilled with excitement as they saw that astonishing figure enter upon a fresh struggle.
What was he going to do? If he wanted to save the woman he loved from prosecution and to release Marie and Sauverand from prison, he would have to intervene some time that night, to take part, somehow or other, in ​the event at hand, and to prove the innocence of the three accomplices, either by arresting the invisible bearer of the fourth letter or by suggesting some plausible explanation. In short, he would have to be there; and that was interesting indeed!
And then the news of Marie Fauville was not good. With unwavering obstinacy she persisted in her suicidal plans. She had to be artificially fed; and the doctors in the infirmary at Saint-Lazare did not conceal their anxiety. Would Don Luis Perenna arrive in time?
Lastly, there was that one other thing, the threat of an explosion which was to blow up Hippolyte Fauville's house ten days after the delivery of the fourth letter, a really impressive threat when it was remembered that the enemy had never announced anything that did not take place at the stated hour. And, although it was still ten days—at least, so people thought—from the date fixed for the catastrophe, the threat made the whole business look more and more sinister.
That evening, therefore, a great crowd made its way, through La Muette and Auteuil, to the Boulevard Suchet, a crowd coming not only from Paris, but also from the suburbs and the provinces. The spectacle was exciting, and people wanted to see.
They saw only from a distance, for the police had barred the approaches a hundred yards from either side of the house and were driving into the ditches of the fortifications all those who managed to climb the opposite slope.
The sky was stormy, with heavy clouds revealed at intervals by the light of a silver moon. There were lightning-flashes and peals of distant thunder. Men sang. Street-boys imitated the noises of animals. People formed ​themselves into groups on the benches and pavements and ate and drank while discussing the matter.
A part of the night was spent in this way and nothing happened to reward the patience of the crowd, who began to wonder, somewhat wearily, if they would not do better to go home, seeing that Sauverand was in prison and that there was every chance that the fourth letter would not appear in the same mysterious way as the others.
And yet they did not go: Don Luis Perenna was due to come!
From ten o'clock in the evening the Prefect of Police and his secretary general, the chief detective and Weber, his deputy, Sergeant Mazeroux, and two detectives were gathered in the large room in which Fauville had been murdered. Fifteen more detectives occupied the remaining rooms, while some twenty others watched the roofs, the outside of the house, and the garden.
Once again a thorough search had been made during the afternoon, with no better results than before. But it was decided that all the men should keep awake. If the letter was delivered anywhere in the big room, they wanted to know and they meant to know who brought it. The police do not recognize miracles.
At twelve o'clock M. Desmalions had coffee served to his subordinates. He himself took two cups and never ceased walking from one end to the other of the room, or climbing the staircase that led to the attic, or going through the passage and hall. Preferring that the watch should be maintained under the most favourable conditions, he left all the doors opened and all the electric lights on.
Mazeroux objected:
"It has to be dark for the letter to come. You will ​remember, Monsieur le Préfet, that the other experiment was tried before and the letter was not delivered."
"We will try it again," replied M. Desmalions, who, in spite of everything, was really afraid of Don Luis's interference, and increased his measures to make it impossible.
Meanwhile, as the night wore on, the minds of all those present became impatient. Prepared for the angry struggle as they were, they longed for the opportunity to show their strength. They made desperate use of their ears and eyes.
At one o'clock there was an alarm that showed the pitch which the nervous tension had reached. A shot was fired on the first floor, followed by shouts. On inquiry, it was found that two detectives, meeting in the course of a round, had not recognized each other, and one of them had discharged his revolver in the air to inform his comrades.
In the meantime the crowd outside had diminished, as M. Desmalions perceived on opening the garden gate. The orders had been relaxed and sightseers were allowed to come nearer, though they were still kept at a distance from the pavement.
Mazeroux said:
"It is a good thing that the explosion is due in ten days' time and not to-night, Monsieur le Préfet; otherwise, all those good people would be in danger as well as ourselves."
"There will be no explosion in ten days' time, any more than there will be a letter to-night," said M. Desmalions, shrugging his shoulders. And he added, "Besides, on that day, the orders will be strict."
It was now ten minutes past two.
​At twenty-five minutes past, as the Prefect was lighting a cigar, the chief detective ventured to joke:
"That's something you will have to do without, next time, Monsieur le Préfet. It would be too risky."
"Next time," said M. Desmalions, "I shall not waste time in keeping watch. For I really begin to think that all this business with the letters is over."
"You can never tell," suggested Mazeroux.
A few minutes more passed. M. Desmalions had sat down. The others also were seated. No one spoke.
And suddenly they all sprang up, with one movement, and the same expression of surprise.
A bell had rung.
They at once heard where the sound came from.
"The telephone," M. Desmalions muttered.
He took down the receiver.
"Hullo! Who are you?"
A voice answered, but so distant and so faint that he could only catch an incoherent noise and exclaimed:
"Speak louder! What is it? Who are you?"
The voice spluttered out a few syllables that seemed to astound him.
"Hullo!" he said. "I don't understand. Please repeat what you said. Who is it speaking?"
"Don Luis Perenna," was the answer, more distinctly this time.
The Prefect made as though to hang up the receiver; and he growled:
"It's a hoax. Some rotter amusing himself at our expense."
Nevertheless, in spite of himself, he went on in a gruff voice:
​"Look here, what is it? You say you're Don Luis Perenna?"
"Yes."
"What do you want?"
"What's the time?"
"What's the time!"
The Prefect made an angry gesture, not so much because of the ridiculous question as because he had really recognized Don Luis's voice beyond mistake.
"Well?" he said, controlling himself. "What's all this about? Where are you?"
"At my house, above the iron curtain, in the ceiling of my study."
"In the ceiling!" repeated the Prefect, not knowing what to think.
"Yes; and more or less done for, I confess."
"We'll send and help you out," said M. Desmalions, who was beginning to enjoy himself.
"Later on, Monsieur le Préfet. First answer me. Quickly! If not, I don't know that I shall have the strength. What's the time?"
"Oh, look here!"
"I beg of you——"
"It's twenty minutes to three."
"Twenty minutes to three!"
It was as though Don Luis found renewed strength in a sudden fit of fear. His weak voice recovered its emphasis, and, by turns imperious, despairing, and beseeching, full of a conviction which he did his utmost to impart to M. Desmalions, he said:
"Go away, Monsieur le Préfet! Go, all of you; leave the house. The house will be blown up at three o'clock. ​Yes, yes, I swear it will. Ten days after the fourth letter means now, because there has been a ten days' delay in the delivery of the letters. It means now, at three o'clock in the morning. Remember what was written on the sheet which Deputy Chief Weber handed you this morning: 'The explosion is independent of the letters. It will take place at three o'clock in the morning.' At three o'clock in the morning, to-day, Monsieur le Préfet!" The voice faltered and then continued:
"Go away, please. Let no one remain in the house. You must believe me. I know everything about the business. And nothing can prevent the threat from being executed. Go, go, go! This is horrible; I feel that you do not believe me—and I have no strength left. Go away, every one of you!"
He said a few more words which M. Desmalions could not make out. Then the voice ceased; and, though the Prefect still heard cries, it seemed to him that those cries were distant, as though the instrument were no longer within the reach of the mouth that uttered them.
He hung up the receiver.
"Gentlemen," he said, with a smile, "it is seventeen to three. In seventeen minutes we shall all be blown up together. At least, that is what our good friend Don Luis Perenna declares."
In spite of the jokes with which this threat was met, there was a general feeling of uneasiness. Weber asked:
"Was it really Don Luis, Monsieur le Préfet?"
"Don Luis in person. He has gone to earth in some hiding-hole in his house, above the study; and his fatigue and privations seem to have unsettled him a little. Maze​roux, go and ferret him out—unless this is just some fresh trick on his part. You have your warrant."
Sergeant Mazeroux went up to M. Desmalions. His face was pallid.
"Monsieur le Préfet, did he tell you that we were going to be blown up?"
"He did. He relies on the note which M. Weber found in a volume of Shakespeare. The explosion is to take place to-night."
"At three o'clock in the morning?"
"At three o'clock in the morning—that is to say, in less than a quarter of an hour."
"And do you propose to remain, Monsieur le Préfet?"
"What next, Sergeant? Do you imagine that we are going to obey that gentleman's fancies?"
Mazeroux staggered, hesitated, and then, despite all his natural deference, unable to contain himself, exclaimed:
"Monsieur le Préfet, it's not a fancy. I have worked with Don Luis. I know the man. If he tells you that something is going to happen, it's because he has his reasons."
"Absurd reasons."
"No, no, Monsieur le Préfet," Mazeroux pleaded, growing more and more excited. "I swear that you must listen to him. The house will be blown up—he said so—at three o'clock. We have a few minutes left. Let us go. I entreat you, Monsieur le Préfet."
"In other words, you want us to run away."
"But it's not running away, Monsieur le Préfet. It's a simple precaution. After all, we can't risk—— You, yourself, Monsieur le Préfet——"
"That will do."
​"But, Monsieur le Préfet, as Don Luis said——"
"That will do, I say!" repeated the Prefect harshly. "If you're afraid, you can take advantage of the order which I gave you and go off after Don Luis."
Mazeroux clicked his heels together and, old soldier that he was, saluted:
"I shall stay here, Monsieur le Préfet."
And he turned and went back to his place at a distance.
Silence followed. M. Desmalions began to walk up and down the room, with his hands behind his back. Then, addressing the chief detective and the secretary general:
"You are of my opinion, I hope?" he said.
"Why, yes, Monsieur le Préfet."
"Well, of course! To begin with, that supposition is based on nothing serious. And, besides, we are guarded, aren't we? Bombs don't come tumbling on one's head like that. It takes some one to throw them. Well, how are they to come? By what way?"
"Same way as the letters," the secretary general ventured to suggest.
"What's that? Then you admit——?"
The secretary general did not reply and M. Desmalions did not complete his sentence. He himself, like the others, experienced that same feeling of uneasiness which gradually, as the seconds sped past, was becoming almost intolerably painful.
Three o'clock in the morning!… The words kept on recurring to his mind. Twice he looked at his watch. There was twelve minutes left. There was ten minutes. Was the house really going to be blown ​up, by the mere effect of an infernal and all-powerful will?
"It's senseless, absolutely senseless!" he cried, stamping his foot.
But, on looking at his companions, he was amazed to see how drawn their faces were; and he felt his courage sink in a strange way. He was certainly not afraid; and the others were no more afraid than he. But all of them, from the chiefs to the simple detectives, were under the influence of that Don Luis Perenna whom they had seen accomplishing such extraordinary feats, and who had shown such wonderful ability throughout this mysterious adventure.
Consciously or unconsciously, whether they wished it or no, they looked upon him as an exceptional being endowed with special faculties, a being of whom they could not think without conjuring up the image of the amazing Arsène Lupin, with his legend of daring, genius, and superhuman insight.
And Lupin was telling them to fly. Pursued and hunted as he was, he voluntarily gave himself up to warn them of their danger. And the danger was immediate. Seven minutes more, six minutes more—and the house would be blown up.
With great simplicity, Mazeroux went on his knees, made the sign of the cross, and said his prayers in a low voice. The action was so impressive that the secretary general and the chief detective made a movement as though to go toward the Prefect of Police.
M. Desmalions turned away his head and continued his walk up and down the room. But his anguish increased; and the words which he had heard over the tele​phone rang in his ears; and all Perenna's authority, his ardent entreaties, his frenzied conviction—all this upset him. He had seen Perenna at work. He felt it borne in upon him that he had no right, in the present circumstances, to neglect the man's warning.
"Let's go," he said.
The words were spoken in the calmest manner; and it really seemed as if those who heard them regarded them merely as the sensible conclusion of a very ordinary state of affairs. They went away without hurry or disorder, not as fugitives, but as men deliberately obeying the dictates of prudence.
They stood back at the door to let the Prefect go first.
"No," he said, "go on; I'll follow you."
He was the last out, leaving the electric light full on.
In the hall he asked the chief detective to blow his whistle. When all the plain-clothesmen had assembled, he sent them out of the house together with the porter, and shut the door behind him. Then, calling the detectives who were watching the boulevard, he said:
"Let everybody stand a good distance away; push the crowd as far back as you can; and be quick about it. We shall enter the house again in half an hour."
"And you, Monsieur le Préfet?" whispered Mazeroux. "You won't remain here, I hope?"
"No, that I shan't!" he said, laughing. "If I take our friend Perenna's advice at all, I may as well take it thoroughly!"
"There is only two minutes left."
"Our friend Perenna spoke of three o'clock, not of two minutes to three. So——"
He crossed the boulevard, accompanied by his secre​tary general, the chief detective, and Mazeroux, and clambered up the slope of the fortifications opposite the house.
"Perhaps we ought to stoop down," suggested Mazeroux.
"Let's stoop, by all means," said the Prefect, still in a good humour. "But, honestly, if there's no explosion, I shall send a bullet through my head. I could not go on living after making myself look so ridiculous."
"There will be an explosion, Monsieur le Préfet," declared Mazeroux.
"What confidence you must have in our friend Don Luis!"
"You have just the same confidence, Monsieur le Préfet."
They were silent, irritated by the wait, and struggling with the absurd anxiety that oppressed them. They counted the seconds singly, by the beating of their hearts. It was interminable.
Three o'clock sounded from somewhere.
"You see," grinned M. Desmalions, in an altered voice, "you see! There's nothing, thank goodness!"
And he growled:
"It's idiotic, perfectly idiotic! How could any one imagine such nonsense!"
Another clock struck, farther away. Then the hour also rang from the roof of a neighbouring building.
Before the third stroke had sounded they heard a kind of cracking, and, the next moment, came the terrible blast, complete, but so brief that they had only, so to speak, a vision of an immense sheaf of flames and smoke shooting forth enormous stones and pieces of wall, some​thing like the grand finale of a fireworks display. And it was all over. The volcano had erupted.
"Look sharp!" shouted the Prefect of Police, darting forward. "Telephone for the engines, quick, in case of fire!"
He caught Mazeroux by the arm:
"Run to my motor; you'll see her a hundred yards down the boulevard. Tell the man to drive you to Don Luis, and, if you find him, release him and bring him here."
"Under arrest, Monsieur le Préfet?"
"Under arrest? You're mad!"
"But, if the deputy chief——"
"The deputy chief will keep his mouth shut. I'll see to that. Be off!"
Mazeroux fulfilled his mission, not with greater speed than if he had been sent to arrest Don Luis, for Mazeroux was a conscientious man, but with extraordinary pleasure. The fight which he had been obliged to wage against the man whom he still called "the chief" had often distressed him to the point of tears. This time he was coming to help him, perhaps to save his life.
That afternoon the deputy chief had ceased his search of the house, by M. Desmalions's orders, as Don Luis's escape seemed certain, and left only three men on duty. Mazeroux found them in a room on the ground floor, where they were sitting up in turns. In reply to his questions, they declared that they had not heard a sound.
He went upstairs alone, so as to have no witnesses to his interview with the governor, passed through the drawing-room and entered the study.
Here he was overcome with anxiety, for, after turning on the light, the first glance revealed nothing to his eyes.
​"Chief!" he cried, repeatedly. "Where are you, Chief?"
No answer.
"And yet," thought Mazeroux, "as he telephoned, he can't be far away."
In fact, he saw from where he stood that the receiver was hanging from its cord; and, going on to the telephone box, he stumbled over bits of brick and plaster that strewed the carpet. He then switched on the light in the box as well and saw a hand and arm hanging from the ceiling above him. The ceiling was broken up all around that arm. But the shoulder had not been able to pass through; and Mazeroux could not see the captive's head.
He sprang on to a chair and reached the hand. He felt it and was reassured by the warmth of its touch.
"Is that you, Mazeroux?" asked a voice that seemed to the sergeant to come from very far away.
"Yes, it's I. You're not wounded, are you? Nothing serious?"
"No, only stunned—and a bit faint—from hunger.… Listen to me."
"I'm listening."
"Open the second drawer on the left in my writing-desk.… You'll find——"
"Yes, Chief?"
"An old stick of chocolate."
"But——"
"Do as I tell you, Alexandre; I'm famished."
Indeed, Don Luis recovered after a moment or two and said, in a gayer voice:
"That's better. I can wait now. Go to the kitchen and fetch me some bread and some water."
"I'll be back at once, Chief."
​"Not this way. Come back by Florence Levasseur's room and the secret passage to the ladder which leads to the trapdoor at the top."
And he told him how to make the stone swing out and how to enter the hollow in which he had expected to meet with such a tragic end.
The thing was done in ten minutes. Mazeroux cleared the opening, caught hold of Don Luis by the legs and pulled him out of his hole.
"Oh, dear, oh dear!" he moaned, in a voice full of pity. "What a position, Chief! How did you manage it all? Yes, I see: you must have dug down, where you lay, and gone on digging—for more than a yard! And it took some pluck, I expect, on an empty stomach!"
When Don Luis was seated in his bedroom and had swallowed a few bits of bread and drunk what he wanted, he told his story:
"Yes, it took the devil's own pluck, old man. By Jingo! when a chap's ideas are whirling in his head and he can't use his brain, upon my word, all he asks is to die! And then there was no air, you see. I couldn't breathe. I went on digging, however, as you saw, went on digging while I was half asleep, in a sort of nightmare. Just look: my fingers are in a jelly. But there, I was thinking of that confounded business of the explosion and I wanted to warn you at all costs, and I dug away at my tunnel. What a job! And then, oof! I felt space at last!
"I got my hand through and next my arm. Where was I? Why, over the telephone, of course! I knew that at once by feeling the wall and finding the wires. Then it took me quite half an hour to get hold of the instrument. I couldn't reach it with my arm.
​"I managed at last with a piece of string and a slip-knot to fish up the receiver and hold it near my mouth, or, say, at ten inches from my mouth. And then I shouted and roared to make my voice carry; and, all the time, I was in pain. And then, at last, my string broke.… And then—and then—I hadn't an ounce of strength left in my body. Besides, you fellows had been warned; and it was for you to get yourselves out of the mess."
He looked at Mazeroux and asked him, as though certain of the reply:
"The explosion took place, didn't it?"
"Yes, Chief."
"At three o'clock exactly?"
"Yes."
"And of course M. Desmalions had the house cleared?"
"Yes."
"At the last minute?"
"At the last minute."
Don Luis laughed and said:
"I knew he would wait about and not give way until the crucial moment. You must have had a bad time of it, my poor Mazeroux, for of course you agreed with me from the start."
He kept on eating while he talked; and each mouthful seemed to bring back a little of his usual animation.
"Funny thing, hunger!" he said. "Makes you feel so light-headed. I must practise getting used to it, however."
"At any rate, Chief, no one would believe that you have been fasting for nearly forty-eight hours."
"Ah, that comes of having a sound constitution, with ​something to fall back upon! I shall be a different man in half an hour. Just give me time to shave and have a bath."
When he had finished dressing, he sat down to the breakfast of eggs and cold meat which Mazeroux had prepared for him; and then, getting up, said:
"Now, let's be off."
"But there's no hurry, Chief. Why don't you lie down for a few hours? The Prefect can wait."
"You're mad! What about Marie Fauville?"
"Marie Fauville?"
"Why, of course! Do you think I'm going to leave her in prison, or Sauverand, either? There's not a second to lose, old chap."
Mazeroux thought to himself that the chief had not quite recovered his wits yet. What? Release Marie Fauville and Sauverand, one, two, three, just like that! No, no, it was going a bit too far.
However, he took down to the Prefect's car a new Perenna, merry, brisk, and as fresh as though he had just got out of bed.
"Very flattering to my pride," said Don Luis to Mazeroux, "most flattering, that hesitation of the Prefect's, after I had warned him over the telephone, followed by his submission at the decisive moment. What a hold I must have on all those jokers, to make them sit up at a sign from little me! 'Beware, gentlemen!' I telephone to them from the bottomless pit. 'Beware! At three o'clock, a bomb!' 'Nonsense!' say they. 'Not a bit of it!' say I. 'How do you know?' 'Because I do.' 'But what proof have you?' 'What proof? That I say so.' 'Oh, well, of course, if you say so!' And, at five minutes ​to three, out they march. Ah, if I wasn't built up of modesty——"
They came to the Boulevard Suchet, where the crowd was so dense that they had to alight from the car. Mazeroux passed through the cordon of police protecting the approaches to the house and took Don Luis to the slope across the road.
"Wait for me here, Chief. I'll tell the Prefect of Police."
On the other side of the boulevard, under the pale morning sky in which a few black clouds still lingered, Don Luis saw the havoc wrought by the explosion. It was apparently not so great as he had expected. Some of the ceilings had fallen in and their rubbish showed through the yawning cavities of the windows; but the house remained standing. Even Fauville's built-out annex had not suffered overmuch, and, strange to say, the electric light, which the Prefect had left burning on his departure, had not gone out. The garden and the road were covered with stacks of furniture, over which a number of soldiers and police kept watch.
"Come with me, Chief," said Mazeroux, as he fetched Don Luis and led him toward the engineer's workroom.
A part of the floor was demolished. The outer walls on the left, near the passage, were cracked; and two workmen were fixing up beams, brought from the nearest timber yard, to support the ceiling. But, on the whole, the explosion had not had the results which the man who prepared it must have anticipated.
M. Desmalions was there, together with all the men who had spent the night in the room and several important persons from the public prosecutor's office. Weber, the ​deputy chief detective, alone had gone, refusing to meet his enemy.
Don Luis's arrival caused great excitement. The Prefect at once came up to him and said:
"All our thanks, Monsieur. Your insight is above praise. You have saved our lives; and these gentlemen and I wish to tell you so most emphatically. In my case, it is the second time that I have to thank you."
"There is a very simple way of thanking me, Monsieur le Préfet," said Don Luis, "and that is to allow me to carry out my task to the end."
"Your task?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Préfet. My action of last night is only the beginning. The conclusion is the release of Marie Fauville and Gaston Sauverand."
M. Desmalions smiled.
"Oh!"
"Am I asking too much, Monsieur le Préfet?"
"One can always ask, but the request should be reasonable. And the innocence of those people does not depend on me."
"No; but it depends on you, Monsieur le Préfet, to let them know if I prove their innocence to you."
"Yes, I agree, if you prove it beyond dispute."
"Just so."
Don Luis's calm assurance impressed M. Desmalions in spite of everything and even more than on the former occasions; and he suggested:
"The results of the hasty inspection which we have made will perhaps help you. For instance, we are certain that the bomb was placed by the entrance to the passage and probably under the boards of the floor."
​"Please do not trouble, Monsieur le Préfet. These are only secondary details. The great thing now is that you should know the whole truth, and that not only through words."
The Prefect had come closer. The magistrate and detectives were standing round Don Luis, watching his lips and movements with feverish impatience. Was it possible that that truth, as yet so remote and vague, in spite of all the importance which they attached to the arrests already effected, was known at last?
It was a solemn moment. Every one was on tenterhooks. The manner in which Don Luis had foretold the explosion lent the value of an accomplished fact to his predictions; and the men whom he had saved from the terrible catastrophe were almost ready to accept as certainties the most improbable statements which a man of his stamp might make.
"Monsieur le Préfet," he said, "you waited in vain last night for the fourth letter to make its appearance. We shall now be able, by an unexpected miracle of chance, to be present at the delivery of the letter. You will then know that it was the same hand that committed all the crimes—and you will know whose hand that was."
And, turning to Mazeroux:
"Sergeant, will you please make the room as dark as you can? The shutters are gone; but you might draw the curtains across the windows and close the doors. Monsieur le Préfet, is it by accident that the electric light is on?"
"Yes, by accident. We will have it turned out."
"One moment. Have any of you gentlemen a pocket lantern about you? Or, no, it doesn't matter. This will do."
​There was a candle in a sconce. He took it and lit it.
Then he switched off the electric light.
There was a half darkness, amid which the flame of the candle flickered in the draught from the windows. Don Luis protected the flame with his hand and moved to the table.
"I do not think that we shall be kept waiting long," he said. "As I foresee it, there will be only a few seconds before the facts speak for themselves and better than I could do."
Those few seconds, during which no one broke the silence, were unforgettable. M. Desmalions has since declared, in an interview in which he ridicules himself very cleverly, that his brain, over-stimulated by the fatigues of the night and by the whole scene before him, imagined the most unlikely events, such as an invasion of the house by armed assailants, or the apparition of ghosts and spirits.
He had the curiosity, however, he said, to watch Don Luis. Sitting on the edge of the table, with his head thrown a little back and his eyes roaming over the ceiling, Don Luis was eating a piece of bread and nibbling at a cake of chocolate. He seemed very hungry, but quite at his ease.
The others maintained that tense attitude which we put on at moments of great physical effort. Their faces were distorted with a sort of grimace. They were haunted by the memory of the explosion as well as obsessed by what was going to happen. The flame of the candle cast shadows on the wall.
More seconds elapsed than Don Luis Perenna had said, thirty or forty seconds, perhaps, that seemed endless. Then Perenna lifted the candle a little and said:
​"There you are."
They had all seen what they now saw almost as soon as he spoke. A letter was descending from the ceiling. It spun round slowly, like a leaf falling from a tree without being driven by the wind. It just touched Don Luis and alighted on the floor between two legs of the table.
Picking up the paper and handing it to M. Desmalions, Don Luis said:
"There you are, Monsieur le Préfet. This is the fourth letter, due last night."