"Mother! some drink, and let it be choice," cried the robber. "I have well earned my day. Serve supper, Calabash; Martial shall gnaw our bones—good enough for him. Now let us talk of the customer, 'Quai de Billy,' for to-morrow or next day that must come off, if I wish to pocket the money he promised. I am going to tell you, mother; but some drink—thunder! let's have some drink. I'll stand some."
Nicholas rattled the money which he had in his pocket anew; then, throwing off his goatskin jacket and his black woolen cap, he seated himself at table before a ragout of mutton, a piece of cold veal, and salad.
When Calabash had brought some wine and brandy, the widow seated herself at the table, having Nicholas on her right and Calabash on her left; opposite were the unoccupied places of Martial and the two children. The thief drew from his pocket a long, broad knife, with a horn handle and sharp blade. Looking at this murderous weapon with a kind of ferocious satisfaction, he said to the widow, "My rib-tickler still cuts well! Pass me the bread, mother!"
"Speaking of knives," said Calabash, "Francois saw something in the woodhouse."
"What?" said Nicholas, not understanding her.
"He saw one of the trotters—"
"Of the man?" cried Nicholas.
"Yes," said the widow, putting a slice of meat on the plate of her son.
"That's queer, for the hole was very deep," said the brigand, "but since that time should have been heaped up."
"We must throw the lot into the river to-night," said the widow."