"You have been listening, eh?"
"Oh, as to that, I was waiting to see if Madame Courtois had any commands for me."
A sudden reflection occurred to M. Plantat; the expression of his eye changed. He winked at M. Lecoq to call his attention, and addressing the bone-setter in a milder tone, said: "Come here, Master Robelot."
Lecoq had read the man at a glance. Robelot was a small, insignificant-looking man, but really of herculean strength. His hair, cut short behind, fell over his large, intelligent forehead. His eyes shone with the fire of covetousness, and expressed, when he forgot to guard them, a cynical boldness. A sly smile was always playing about his thin lips, beneath which there was no beard. A little way off, with his slight figure and his beardless face, he looked like a Paris gamin—one of those little wretches who are the essence of all corruption, whose imagination is more soiled than the gutters where they search for lost pennies.
Robelot advanced several steps, smiling and bowing. "Perhaps," said he,
"Monsieur has, by chance, need of me?"
"None whatever, Master Robelot, I only wish to congratulate you on happening in so apropos, to bleed Monsieur Courtois. Your lancet has, doubtless, saved his life."
"It's quite possible."
"Monsieur Courtois is generous—he will amply recompense this great service."
"Oh, I shall ask him nothing. Thank God, I want nobody's help. If I am paid my due, I am content."
"I know that well enough; you are prosperous—you ought to be satisfied."