And M. Mifroid, replacing his gleaming glasses on his nose, fixed the stage-manager with a contemplative stare.
“So Mauclair takes snuff, does he?” he asked carelessly.
“Yes, Mr. Commissary. … Look, there is his snuffbox on that little shelf. … Oh, he’s a great snuff-taker!”
“So am I,” said Mifroid and put the snuffbox in his pocket.
Raoul and the Persian, themselves unobserved, watched the removal of the three bodies by a number of scene-shifters, who were followed by the commissary and all the people with him. Their steps were heard for a few minutes on the stage above.
When they were alone the Persian made a sign to Raoul to stand up. Raoul did so; but, as he did not lift his hand in front of his eyes, ready to fire, the Persian told him to resume that attitude and to continue it, whatever happened.
“But it tires the hand unnecessarily,” whispered Raoul. “If I do fire, I shan’t be sure of my aim.”
“Then shift your pistol to the other hand,” said the Persian.
“I can’t shoot with my left hand.”
Thereupon, the Persian made this queer reply, which was certainly not calculated to throw light into the young man’s flurried brain:
“It’s not a question of shooting with the right hand or the left; it’s a question of holding one of your hands as though you were going to pull the trigger of a pistol with your arm bent. As for the pistol itself, when all is said, you can put that in your pocket!”