A few minutes later the policeman comes by, clinking his iron heels on the
pavement, peering on all sides. He takes his time; he has the whole night
before him; he does not notice the paper bag--not till he comes quite
close to it. Then he stops and stares at it. It looks so white and so full
as it lies there; perhaps a little sum--what? A little sum of silver
money?... and he picks it up. Hum ... it is light--very light; maybe an
expensive feather; some hat trimming.... He opened it carefully with his
big hands, and looked in. I laughed, laughed, slapped my thighs, and
laughed, like a maniac. And not a sound issued from my throat; my laughter
was hushed and feverish to the intensity of tears.
Clink, clink again over the paving-stones, and the policeman took a turn
towards the landing-stage. I sat there, with tears in my eyes, and
hiccoughed for breath, quite beside myself with feverish merriment. I
commenced to talk aloud to myself all about the cornet, imitated the poor
policeman's movements, peeped into my hollow hand, and repeated over and
over again to myself, "He coughed as he threw it away--he coughed as he
threw it away." I added new words to these, gave them additional point,
changed the whole sentence, and made it catching and piquant. He coughed
once--Kheu heu!
I exhausted myself in weaving variations on these words, and the evening
was far advanced before my mirth ceased.
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