"All the same; when he has sung all the songs he knows to amuse himself, the time must appear devilishly long to him."
"La Chouette says that he amuses himself in hunting rats, and that this cellar is very full of game."
"I say, Nicholas, speaking of individuals who must be rather wearied, fatigued," said Calabash with a ferocious smile, pointing with her finger to the window just described, "there is one there who must be sucking his own blood."
"Bah! he is asleep. Since this morning he has made no noise; and his dog is silent."
"Perhaps he has strangled it for food; these two days past they must have been almost mad with hunger up there."
"It is their business. Martial may endure all this as long as he pleases, if it amuses him; when he has finished, we will say that he died from a severe illness; there will be no difficulty."
"You think so?"
"Most surely. On going this morning to Asnieres, mother met Ferot, the fisherman; as he expressed his surprise at not having seen his friend Martial for two days, she told him that Martial did not leave his bed, he was so ill, and his life was despaired of. He swallowed all that just like honey; he will tell it to others—and when the affair happens it will seem all natural."
"Yes, but he will not die at once; it takes a long time in this way."
"There is no other way to manage it. This madman, Martial, when he has a mind, is as wicked as the devil, and as strong as a bull in the bargain; had he suspected us, we could not have approached him without danger; while with his door once well nailed up on the outside, what can he do? His window was already ironed."