"Could we find some excuse for
opening that desk?"
"It mightn't be quite right," responded Poiret to this.
"Where is the harm? It is money stolen from all sorts of people, so it
doesn't belong to any one now. But we haven't time, there is the
Vauquer."
"Here is the ether," said that lady. "I must say that this is an
eventful day. Lord! that man can't have had a stroke; he is as white
as curds."
"White as curds?" echoed Poiret.
"And his pulse is steady," said the widow, laying her hand on his
breast.
"Steady?" said the astonished Poiret.
"He is all right."
"Do you think so?" asked Poiret.
"Lord! Yes, he looks as if he were sleeping. Sylvie has gone for a
doctor. I say, Mlle. Michonneau, he is sniffing the ether. Pooh! it is
only a spasm. His pulse is good. He is as strong as a Turk. Just look,
mademoiselle, what a fur tippet he has on his chest; that is the sort
of man to live till he is a hundred. His wig holds on tightly,
however. Dear me! it is glued on, and his own hair is red; that is why
he wears a wig. They say that red-haired people are either the worst
or the best. Is he one of the good ones, I wonder?"
"Good to hang," said Poiret.
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