“Ah, yes,” sighed Le Brux, “go on.  Just like that, go on.  Well, your boy went on.  He felt her head, her arms, her shoulders; you could see his fingers seeking things out.  Cellette is a model born—­and trained.  She stood it wonderfully until he came to the muscles of her back.  You know how we all like to have our backs scratched, just like dogs and cats?  Well, I don’t suppose Cellette had ever happened on just that feeling before.  It touched the cat chord.  She began to gurgle and—­and wriggle.  ‘Keep still, please,’ says the boy, very grave and earnest.  And a minute later, ‘Keep still, will you?’ Then he came to her ribs.”

Le Brux’s cheeks puffed out, and he showed other signs of distress, but he controlled himself.

“After that,” he continued, “things happened more or less at one and the same time.  Cellette giggled and squirmed.  Then the boy got angry and cried, ’Will you keep still? and grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her!  Shook Cellette till her little head went zig-zag-zigzag.  It took her the sixteenth part of a second to get to her feet, and when she slapped him I myself saw stars.  At the same time I saw her face, and I yelled, ‘Run, boy!  Run!’ For a second he stood paralyzed with wonder,—­just long enough for her to get in another slap,—­and then, just as she was curving her fingers, he—­he ran.  Her nails only took a strip out of his jacket!  Oh! oh!”

“Maitre," cried Leighton, tears crawling down his cheeks, “don’t you dare stop!  Go on!  Go on Finish now while you have the strength.”

“Here they passed and there,” groaned Le Brux, pointing at bits of ruin, “then I yelled, ’Boy, don’t go out of the door, whatever you do.  She’ll follow sure, and we’ll never hear the last of it.’  Then the thought came to me that he was the son of my friend.  I lifted up the end of the throne.  He shot under it.  I let it down quickly.  I sat upon it.  I laughed—­I——­”

Le Brux stopped and stared.  Leighton, his feet outstretched, his head thrown back, his arms hanging limp, was laughing as he had never laughed before.  As quick as a cat, Le Brux reached out for the pail and dashed its remaining contents in Leighton’s face.

“I cannot bear an obligation,” he said grimly as Leighton spluttered and choked.  “Thou savedst my life; I save thine.  How is it you say in English?  ‘One good turn deserves another!’”

“Matre," said Leighton, drying his face and then his eyes, “where is the boy now?  He’s—­he’s not still under the throne?”

“I don’t know where he is,” said Le Brux.  “He’s not under the throne.  I remember, vaguely, it is true, but I remember letting him out.  That was this morning.  Then I wired to you.  Since then I have been laughing myself to death.”

Leighton continued to wipe his eyes, but Le Brux had sobered down.