“This is a regular pandemonium,” cried Chicot, recognizing his host.

“Oh! monsieur,” cried the host, clasping his hands, “what has happened?”

“Are there demons lodging here?” asked Chicot.

“Oh! what weather,” replied the host pathetically.

“But the bolts do not hold; this house must be made of card-board.  I would rather go away;—­I prefer the road.”

“Oh! my poor furniture,” sighed the host.

“But my clothes! where are they?  They were on this chair.”

“If they were there, they ought to be there still,” replied the host.

“What! ‘if they were there.’  Do you think I came here yesterday in this costume?”

“Mon Dieu! monsieur,” answered the host, with embarrassment, “I know you were clothed.”

“It is lucky you confess it.”

“But—­”

“But what?”

“The wind has dispersed everything.”

“Ah! that is a reason.”

“You see.”

“But, my friend, when the wind comes in it comes from outside, and it must have come in here if it made this destruction.”

“Certainly, monsieur.”

“Well, the wind in coming in here should have brought with it the clothes of others, instead of carrying mine out.”

“So it should, and yet the contrary seems to have happened.”

“But what is this?  The wind must have walked in the mud, for here are footmarks on the floor.”  And Chicot pointed out the traces left by a muddy boot, on seeing which the host turned pale.

“Now, my friend,” said Chicot, “I advise you to keep a watch over these winds which enter hotels, penetrate rooms by breaking doors, and retire, carrying away the clothes of the guests.”

The host drew back toward the door.  “You call me thief!” said he.

“You are responsible for my clothes, and they are gone—­you will not deny that?”

“You insult me.”

Chicot made a menacing gesture.

“Hola!” cried the host; “hola! help!”

Four men armed with sticks immediately appeared.

“Ah! here are the four winds,” cried Chicot, making a thrust with his sword at one of them; but they all rapidly disappeared, not, however, before one of them had whispered something to the host.

“Your clothes shall be found,” growled he.

“Well! that is all I ask.”

They soon made their appearance, but visibly deteriorated.

“Ah! there are nails in your staircase; what a devil of a wind it was,” said Chicot.

“Now you will go to bed again?” said the host.

“No, I thank you, I have slept enough; leave me your lantern and I will read.”

Chicot replaced the chest of drawers against the door, dressed himself, got into bed again, and read till daybreak, when he asked for his horse, paid his bill, and went away, saying to himself—­

“We shall see, to-night.”