"They know now that there is a man buried here; they know that Nicholas has stolen: once in apprenticeship, they will speak; we shall be taken, and we shall all be executed—you, as well as we; that's what will happen if I listen to you—if I allow you to place the children elsewhere. And yet you say you don't wish us any harm! I do not ask you to love me; but do not hasten the moment when we shall be taken."
The softened tones of the widow made Martial believe that his threats had produced a salutary effect: he fell into a frightful snare.
"I know the children," replied he. "I am sure if I tell them to say nothing they will be quiet; besides, I shall always be with them, and will answer for their silence."
"Can any one answer for the words of a child? at Paris, above all, where people are so curious and talkative? It is as much to keep them silent as to aid us that I wish to keep them here."
"Do they not go to the village and to Paris now? Who prevents them from speaking, if they wish to speak? If they were far away from here, so much the better: what they might say would be of no consequence."
"Far from here! and where is that?" said the widow, looking steadily at her son.
"Let me take them away; no consequence to you."
"How would you live?"
"My old master, the locksmith, is a good man. I will tell him what is necessary, and perhaps he will lend me something on account of the children; with that I'll go and bind them out far away from this. We set out in two days, and you will never hear more of us."
"No; I prefer to have them with me. I shall be more sure of them."