“What!” said he, “arrest a man for resisting the devil?  Nonsense, mes amis, you ought to canonize me.  What says Monsieur le proprietaire?”

Monsieur the proprietor smiled.

“I am willing to let the matter drop,” he replied, “on the understanding that Monsieur Mueller was not really the first offender.”

“Foi d’honneur!  He insulted me—­I threw some coffee in his face—­he flung himself upon me like a tiger, and almost choked me, as all here witnessed.  And for what?  Because I did him the honor to make a rough pencilling of his ugly face ... Mille tonnerres!—­the fellow has stolen my sketch-book!”

CHAPTER XXXI.

FANCIES ABOUT FACES.

The sketch-book was undoubtedly gone, and the stranger had undoubtedly taken it.  How he took it, and how he vanished, remained a mystery.

The aspect of affairs, meanwhile, was materially changed.  Mueller no longer stood in the position of a leniently-treated offender.  He had become accuser, and plaintiff.  A grave breach of the law had been committed, and he was the victim of a bold and skilful tour de main.

The police shook their heads, twirled their moustaches, and looked wise.

It was a case of premeditated assault—­in short, of robbery with violence.  It must be inquired into—­reported, of course, at head-quarters, without loss of time.  Would Monsieur be pleased to describe the stolen sketch-book?  An oblong, green volume, secured by an elastic band; contains sketches in pencil and water-colors; value uncertain—­Good.  And the accused ... would Monsieur also be pleased to describe the person of the accused?  His probable age, for instance; his height; the color of his hair, eyes, and beard?  Good again.  Lastly, Monsieur’s own name and address, exactly and in full. Tres-bon. It might, perhaps, be necessary for Monsieur to enter a formal deposition to-morrow morning at the Prefecture of Police, in which case due notice would be given.

Whereupon he who seemed to be chief of the twain, having entered Mueller’s replies in a greasy pocket-book of stupendous dimensions, which he seemed to wear like a cuirass under the breast of his uniform, proceeded to interrogate the proprietor and waiters.

Was the accused an habitual frequenter of the cafe?—­No.  Did they remember ever to have seen him there before?—­No.  Should they recognise him if they saw him again?  To this question the answers were doubtful.  One waiter thought he should recognise the man; another was not sure; and Monsieur the proprietor admitted that he had himself been too angry to observe anything or anybody very minutely.

Finally, having made themselves of as much importance and asked as many questions as possible, the sergents de ville condescended to accept a couple of-petits verres a-piece, and then, with much lifting of cocked hats and clattering of sabres, departed.