“This is not a matter of formalities,” said la Peyrade, “it is a seizure for what is called press misdemeanor, exciting contempt and hatred of the government; you probably have the same sort of compliment awaiting you at home, my poor Thuillier.” “Then it is treachery!” cried Thuillier, losing his head completely. “Hang it, my dear fellow! you know very well what you put in your pamphlet; for my part, I don’t see anything worth whipping a cat for.” “There’s some misunderstanding,” said Barbet, recovering courage; “it will all be explained, and the result will be a fine cause of complaint--won’t it, messieurs?” “Waiter, pens and ink!” cried one of the journalists thus appealed to. “Nonsense! you’ll have time to write your article later,” said another of the brotherhood; “what has a bombshell to do with this ‘filet saute’?” That, of course, was a parody on the famous speech of Charles XII., King of Sweden, when a shot interrupted him while dictating to a secretary. “Messieurs,” said Thuillier, rising, “I am sure you will excuse me for leaving you. If, as Monsieur Barbet thinks, there is some misunderstanding, it ought to be explained at once; I must therefore, with your permission, go to the police court. La Peyrade,” he added in a significant tone, “you will not refuse, I presume, to accompany me. And you, my dear publisher, you would do well to come too.” “No, faith!” said Barbet, “when I breakfast, I breakfast; if the police have committed a blunder, so much the worse for them.” “But suppose the matter is serious?” cried Thuillier, in great agitation. “Well, I should say, what is perfectly true, that I had never read a line of your pamphlet. One thing is very annoying; those damned juries hate beards, and I must cut off mine if I’m compelled to appear in court.” “Come, my dear amphitryon, sit down again,” said the editor of the “Echo de la Bievre,” “we’ll stand by you; I’ve already written an article in my head which will stir up all the tanners in Paris; and, let me tell you, that honorable corporation is a power.” “No, monsieur,” replied Thuillier, “no; a man like me cannot rest an hour under such an accusation as this. Continue your breakfast without us; I hope soon to see you again. La Peyrade, are you coming?” “He’s charming, isn’t he?” said Barbet, when Thuillier and his counsel had left the room. “To ask me to leave a breakfast after the oysters, and go and talk with the police! Come, messieurs, close up the ranks,” he added, gaily. “Tiens!” said one of the hungry journalists, who had cast his eyes into the garden of the Palais-Royal, on which the dining-room of the restaurant opened, “there’s Barbanchu going by; suppose I call him in?” “Yes, certainly,” said Barbet junior, “have him up.” “Barbanchu! Barbanchu!” called out the journalist. Barbanchu, his hat being over his eyes, was some time in discovering the cloud above him whence the voice proceeded.