"Thank you, Tortillard," answered the Schoolmaster; "thank you," and he uttered an aspiration of fearful joy.
"Oh! I pardon you the harm you have done me, and to reward you, you shall hear La Chouette sing! Listen to the bird of death—'
"Bravo, bravo! here am I in the dress circle, private box," said Tortillard, seating himself at the top of the stairs. He raised the light to endeavor to see what was going on in the cellar, but the darkness was too great; so faint a light could not dissipate it. Bras-Rouge's hopeful could distinguish nothing. The struggle between the Schoolmaster and La Chouette was silent and furious, without a word, without a cry. Only, from time to time, could be heard a hard breathing or suffocating respiration, which always accompanies violent and continued struggles.
Tortillard, seated on the stone step, began to stamp his feet in the manner peculiar to spectators anxious for the commencement of a play; then he uttered the familiar cry of the "gods" in the penny-gaffs. "Hoist that rag! trot 'em out! Begin, begin! Music, music!"
"Oh, I have you as I wish," murmured the Schoolmaster from the bottom of the cellar, "and you shall—"
A desperate movement of La Chouette interrupted him. She struggled with that energy which is caused by the fear of death.
"Speak up, we can't hear," cried Tortillard.
"You have a fine chance in my hand. I have you as I wish to have you," continued the Schoolmaster. Then, having doubtless succeeded in holding La Chouette, he added, "That's it. Now listen—"
"Tortillard, call your father!" cried La Chouette, in a breathless, exhausted tone. "Help, help!"
"Turn out that old woman! turn her out! We can't hear," said the little cripple, screaming with laughter. "Silence! out with her!"