“Well, I tell you, M. Bœhmer would never give up the diamonds for mere papers.”
“I said you thought yourself a real Souza.”
“Better say at once that we have failed,” said Manoël.
“Not at all. Come here, captain,” said Beausire to the valet; “you know what we are talking of?”
“Very well; do you think I have committed a folly?”
“M. Bœhmer would, on the other plan, have been incessantly watching us, and all connected with us. Now, with the money and the diamonds both in his hands, he can have no suspicion, but will set out quietly for Portugal, which, however, he will never reach. Is it not so, M. Beausire?”
“About fifty leagues from here,” said Beausire, “this clever fellow here will come and present two pistols at the heads of our postilions, will steal from us all we have, including the diamonds, and will leave M. Bœhmer half dead with blows.”
“Oh, I did not understand exactly that,” said the valet. “I thought you would embark for Portugal.”
“M. Bœhmer, like all Germans, will like the sea, and walk on the deck. One day he may slip and fall over, and the necklace will be supposed to have perished with him.”
“Only,” replied Manoël, “for stealing diamonds one is simply sent to the Bastile, but for murder one is hanged.”
“But for stealing diamonds one may be taken; for a little push to M. Bœhmer we should never even be suspected.”
“Well, we will settle all this afterwards,” said Beausire.
“At present let us conduct our business in style, so that they may say, ‘If he was not really ambassador, at least he seemed like one.’”
It was the day after the agreement with M. Bœhmer, and three days after the ball at the Opera. In the Rue Montorgueil, at the end of a courtyard, was a high and narrow house. The ground floor was a kind of shop, and here lived a tolerably well-known journalist. The other stories were occupied by quiet people, who lived there for cheapness. M. Reteau, the journalist, published his paper weekly. It was issued on the day of which we speak; and when M. Reteau rose at eight o’clock, his servant brought him a copy, still wet from the press. He hastened to peruse it, with the care which a tender father bestows on the virtues or failings of his offspring. When he had finished it: