"Mon Dieu! monsieur does not know. They'll kill you, too!"
"No, they won't. And I know all about them, my child. There are four of us, and—— Keep the dog down till I open the door."
"Stay right where you are," he whispered. "Let the dog out."
Tartar could not have been held in by both of them. He jumped to the ground with joyous barks of recognition.
It was now ten o'clock, and the usual odors of a Parisian second breakfast permeated the atmosphere of the cabaret.
Four or five rough-looking men were lounging about, gossiping over their absinthe or apératif. Monsieur Podvin was already, at this early hour in the day, on his second bottle of ordinaire. Opposite, as usual, sat le Cochon.
Madame Podvin was busily burnishing up the zinc bar, and the vigorous and spiteful way in which she did this betrayed the fact that she was in bad temper. She was reserving an extra force of pent-up wrath against the moment when that "lazy little beast Fouchette" should put in an appearance.
Monsieur Podvin was also irritated, but not because of Fouchette's prolonged absence. He was concerned about Tartar.
Le Cochon sympathized with both of them.