“For money,” she answered gayly. “Ten thousand crowns, at the very least, Monsieur. It is a pretty sum, is it not?”
“Very pretty,” I said. “Who is fool enough to part with it?”
“Who but M. Jacques Ribaut, of the Rue des Moulins?” and the hag laughed more than ever.
“Ribaut?” I murmured, a great fear at my heart.
“Assuredly, Ribaut,” and she leered at me horribly. “Perhaps M. Jean Briquet may pay a portion of it. ’Tis worth it to get such a bride, do you not think so, Monsieur?—such a sweet bride, so soft, so young, so innocent—a jewel of a bride!”
“A bride?” I groaned. “Speak out, woman, and tell me what you mean.”
I thought she would choke with laughing.
“In two words, Monsieur,” she gasped, so soon as she had regained her breath. “When once the terms are settled, which will be to-morrow, or perhaps even yet to-day, the girl will be delivered to her anxious and loving uncle, none the worse for her little visit here, where she is quite as safe as in your bed in the Rue du Chantre,” and she paused again to catch her breath. “A day or two after that, M. Briquet will have the honor of leading her to the altar, whither, since she believes you dead, she will accompany him without resistance. And what a bride she will make—so plump, so warm, so rosy, so adorable! Ah, how I envy that happy man!” and she smacked her lips, like a glutton over a choice morsel.
I was pacing up and down the wall. I tore at my chain. In that moment, I would have sold my soul to get my fingers about her neck—scraggy, yellow, seamed—God, how I would have twisted it!
“You hag!” I said between my teeth. “You shall burn in hell for this. Pray God it may be I who send you there!”