"Oho! And she's a dirty spy like you! I know it! And I'll kill her! D'you hear that? À mort! The miserable moucharde!"
"Not to-day, my precious!" said the man, cleverly changing his grip for one of real steel. "Not to-day. Here is where you go with me, deary. Come!"
"I tell you I'll kill her!"
"We'll see about that later; in the mean time you can have a chance to sweat some of that absinthe out of you in St. Lazare. And look sharp, now! If you don't come along quietly I'll have you dragged through the streets! Understand?"
Mlle. Fouchette had, happily unconscious of this exciting scene, passed out of sight, inquired as to the condition of Lerouge, sent in the letter by a trusty nurse, and was returning across the Parvis de la Notre Dame at the same moment that Madeleine, alternately weeping and cursing, was thrown into her cell at the Préfecture.
CHAPTER XX[ToC]
A fortnight had passed since the note to Lerouge, and to all appearances the latter had ignored it and its author.