"Well, then, where shall I take you?"
"I know not. Happily for both, you are no thief, Chourineur. Here, take my pocketbook, and conceal it carefully in my waistcoat, that La Chouette may not see it; she would plunder me of every sou."
"Oh, bless you! the Chouette is quite safe just now; she lies in the Hôpital Beaujon. While I was struggling with you both to-night I happened to dislocate her leg, so she's obliged to lie up for the present."
"But what, in heaven's name, shall I do with this black curtain continually before my eyes? In vain I try to push it away; it is still there, fixed, immovable; and on its surface I see the pale, ghastly features of those—"
He shuddered, and said in a low, hoarse voice, "Chourineur, did I quite do for that man last night?"
"No."
"So much the better," observed the robber. And then, after some minutes' silence, he exclaimed, under a fresh impulse of ungovernable fury, "And it is you I have to thank for all this! Rascal! scoundrel! I hate you! But for you, I should have 'stiffened' my man and walked off with his money. My very blindness I owe to you; my curses upon you for your meddling interference! But through you I should have had my blessed eyes to see my own way with. How do I know what devil's trick you are planning at this moment?"
"Try to forget all that is past,—it can't be helped now; and do not put yourself in such a terrible way,—it is really very bad for you. Come, come along—now, no nonsense—will you? yes or no?—because I am regularly done up, and must get a short snooze somewhere. I can tell you I have had a bellyful of such doings, and to-morrow I shall get back to my timber-pile, and earn an honest dinner before I eat it. I am only waiting to take you wherever you decide upon going, and then on goes my nightcap and I goes to sleep."
"But how can I tell you where to take me, when I do not know myself? My lodging—No, no, that will not do; I should be obliged to tell—"
"Well, then, hark ye. Will you, for a day or two, make shift with my crib? I may meet with some decent sort of people, who, not knowing who you really are, would receive you as a boarder; and we might say you were a confirmed invalid, and required great care and perfect retirement. Now I think of it, there is a person of my acquaintance, living at Port St. Nicolas, has a mother, a very worthy woman, but in humble circumstances, residing at St. Mandé: very likely she would be glad to take charge of you. What do you say,—will you come or not?"