"Monsieur," cried Perrichet, "something has been taken from this
room."
Hanaud looked round the room and shook his head.
"No," he said.
"But yes, monsieur," Perrichet insisted. "Oh, but yes. See! Upon
this dressing-table there was a small pot of cold cream. It stood
here, where my finger is, when we were in this room an hour ago.
Now it is gone."
Hanaud burst into a laugh.
"My friend Perrichet," he said ironically, "I will tell you the
newspaper did not do you justice. You are more intelligent. The
truth, my excellent friend, lies at the bottom of a well; but you
would find it at the bottom of a pot of cold cream. Now let us go.
For in this house, gentlemen, we have nothing more to do."
He passed out of the room. Perrichet stood aside, his face
crimson, his attitude one of shame. He had been rebuked by the
great M. Hanaud, and justly rebuked. He knew it now. He had wished
to display his intelligence--yes, at all costs he must show how
intelligent he was. And he had shown himself a fool. He should
have kept silence about that pot of cream.