“Have they had their breakfast?” “It went up more’n two hours ago.” “And they haven’t called since?” “Not a call; and they don’t even make any noise--you can’t hear ‘em move.” “All right.” Poterne pulled his enormous hat over his eyes, made sure that his spectacles were secure, stuffed bunches of flax into his mouth to fill out his cheeks, and walked toward the stairs. He stole cautiously up, reached the door, saw the key outside, and said to himself: “How imprudent lovers are! what a childish trick!” He turned the knob softly, then rushed into the room, shouting: “Ah! traitor! guilty wife! I have caught you! You must die!” Poterne expected shrieks of despair, as he had arranged with Chichette; but, hearing nothing at all, he walked farther into the room and was thunderstruck to see the lovers sound asleep at an extremely respectful distance from each other. “Sapristi!” said Poterne to himself; “and I hoped to catch ‘em in flagrante--as monsieur le comte said. They are amusing themselves by sleeping! If that’s the way the young man makes love! Chichette must have made some stupid blunder. But no matter! I must act; besides, I surprise them together, that’s the main thing; and if they’re asleep, it’s because it suits them to sleep.” Thereupon Poterne began to rush about the room with shrieks and imprecations. He pulled Chichette’s ear and she awoke; he pinched her arm and she shrieked with him. Chérubin opened his eyes and saw that man, whom he recognized as the Comte de Globeski, storming and blaspheming and drawing from his breast a sort of dagger with which he threatened the young woman. Chérubin realized at once that his charmer’s husband had run them to earth. He trembled and turned pale, and faltered: “O mon Dieu! we are lost!--Don’t kill her, monsieur, I entreat you! Kill me rather--although I have respected your wife’s honor.” “Yes, yes, I will have my revenge, _per Diou!_ Bigre! Ah! you think, villain, to steal my wife from me!” screamed Poterne, stamping on the floor. “_Tarteiff sacre mein Herr!_ On the high road--stop my cab--no, my carriage.--Ah! madame, you shall die by my hand--on the honor of a Polish count!” Chichette did not seem greatly alarmed; she continued to yawn and rub her eyes; Poterne passed her and pinched her with more force; whereupon she gave a loud yell and exclaimed: “Oh! how stupid that is! I don’t want you to do such things to me!”