“As I just told you.”
“That doesn’t prevent you from acting as a collector, does it?”
Chupin instinctively recoiled, convinced that he had betrayed himself by some blunder, but unable to discover in what he had erred. “I did do something in that line formerly,” he faltered.
Vantrasson doubted no longer. “So you confess that you are a vile scoundrel!” he exclaimed. “You confess that you purchased an old promissory note of mine for fourpence, and then sent a man here to seize my goods! Ah! you’d like to trample the poor under foot, would you! Very well. I have you now, and I’ll settle your account! Take that!” And so saying, he dealt his supposed creditor a terrible blow with his clinched fist that sent him reeling to the other end of the shop.
Fortunately, Chupin was very nimble. He did not lose his footing, but sprung over a table and used it as a rampart to shield himself from his dangerous assailant. In the open field, he could easily have protected himself; but here in this narrow space, and hemmed in a corner, he felt that despite this barrier he was lost. “What a devil of a mess!” he thought, as with wonderful agility he avoided Vantrasson’s fist, a fist that would have felled an ox. He had an idea of calling for assistance. But would any one hear him? Would any one reply? And if help came, would not the police be sure to hear of the broil? And if they did, would there not be an investigation which would perhaps disturb Pascal’s plans? Fearing to injure those whom he wished to serve, he resolved to let himself be hacked to pieces rather than allow a cry to escape him; but he changed his tactics, and instead of attempting to parry the blows as he had done before, he now only thought of gaining the door, inch by inch.
He had almost reached it, not without suffering considerable injury, when it suddenly opened, and a young man clad in black, with a smooth shaven face, entered the shop, and sternly exclaimed: “Why! what’s all this?”
The sight of the newcomer seemed to stupefy Vantrasson. “Ah! it is you, Monsieur Maumejan?” he faltered, with a crestfallen air. “It’s nothing; we were only in fun.”
M. Maumejan seemed perfectly satisfied with this explanation; and in the indifferent tone of a man who is delivering a message, the meaning of which he scarcely understood, he said: “A person who knows that your wife is in my employ requested me to ask you if you would be ready to attend to that little matter she spoke of.”
“Certainly. I was preparing for it a moment ago.”
Chupin heard no more. He had hurried out, his clothes in disorder, and himself not a little hurt; but his delight made him lose all thought of his injuries. “That’s M. Ferailleur,” he muttered, “I’m sure of it, and I’m going to prove it.” So saying he hid himself in the doorway of a vacant house a few paces distant from the Vantrassons’, and waited.