Le Brux stopped and stared. Leighton, his feet outstretched, his head
thrown back, his arms hanging limp, was laughing as he had never laughed
before. As quick as a cat, Le Brux reached out for the pail and dashed
its remaining contents in Leighton's face.

"I cannot bear an obligation," he said grimly as Leighton spluttered and
choked. "Thou savedst my life; I save thine. How is it you say in
English? 'One good turn deserves another!'"

"_Matre,"_ said Leighton, drying his face and then his eyes, "where is
the boy now? He's--he's not still under the throne?"

"I don't know where he is," said Le Brux. "He's not under the throne. I
remember, vaguely, it is true, but I remember letting him out. That was
this morning. Then I wired to you. Since then I have been laughing
myself to death."

Leighton continued to wipe his eyes, but Le Brux had sobered down.

"Talk about my mighty impersonality before the nude?" he cried.
"Impersonality! Bah! Mine? Let me tell you that for your boy the nude in
the human form doesn't _exist_ any more than a nude snake, fish, dog,
cat, or canary exists for you or me. He's the most natural, practical,
educated human being I ever came across, and there are several thousand
mothers in France that would do well to send their _jeunes filles_ to
the school that turned him out. In other words, my friend, your boy is
so fresh that I have no mind to be the one to watch him wither or wake
up or do any of the things that Paris leads to. I wired for you to take
him away."