Beauregard was snoring on the sofa when I burst into the room.
"Well, you can bestir yourself and pack!" I volleyed. "The place is too
hot to hold us; we have to get out!"
"Hein?"
"There is a pro here who knows me, confound him! I had to tell him we
were leaving for Crete in the morning--he mustn't see me here again."
The playwright shifted his slippered feet to the floor and sat up. "We
go back to Paris?" he inquired, beaming.
"How can that be? Of course not! We must discover another retreat."
"Fugitives!" moaned Beauregard. "Nomads! Do you not think, Panage, that
_I_ might go back to Paris--I could remain cautiously in the house? The
truth is, my wife is of a very high-minded character, and it distresses
her to have to address tender letters to a monsieur 'Bachelet': she
feels that it is not correct."