"Look here, what is it? You say you're Don Luis Perenna?"
"Yes."
"What do you want?"
"What's the time?"
"What's the time!"
The Prefect made an angry gesture, not so much because of the ridiculous question as because he had really recognized Don Luis's voice beyond mistake.
"Well?" he said, controlling himself. "What's all this about? Where are you?"
"At my house, above the iron curtain, in the ceiling of my study."
"In the ceiling!" repeated the Prefect, not knowing what to think.
"Yes; and more or less done for, I confess."
"We'll send and help you out," said M. Desmalions, who was beginning to enjoy himself.
"Later on, Monsieur le Préfet. First answer me. Quickly! If not, I don't know that I shall have the strength. What's the time?"
"Oh, look here!"
"I beg of you"
"It's twenty minutes to three."
"Twenty minutes to three!"
It was as though Don Luis found renewed strength in a sudden fit of fear. His weak voice recovered its emphasis, and, by turns imperious, despairing, and beseeching, full of a conviction which he did his utmost to impart to M. Desmalions, he said:
"Go away, Monsieur le Préfet! Go, all of you; leave the house. The house will be blown up at three o'clock.
