"Your knife, I tell you!" repeated the Chouette, in an undertone, without paying the least attention to Tortillard's supplication, and putting her shoes off hastily. "I have taken off my shoes," she added, "that I may steal on them quietly from behind. It is almost dark; but I can easily make out the little one by her cloak, and I will do for the other."
"No," said the felon; "to-day it is useless. There will be plenty of time to-morrow."
"What! you're afraid, old patterer, are you?" said the Chouette, with fierce contempt.
"Not at all," replied the Schoolmaster. "But you may fail in your blow and spoil all."
The dog which accompanied the country-woman, scenting the persons hidden in the hollow road, stopped short, and barked furiously, refusing to come to Fleur-de-Marie, who called him frequently.
"Do you hear their dog? Here they are! Your knife!—or, if not—" cried the Chouette, with a threatening air.
"Come and take it from me, then—by force," said the Schoolmaster.
"It's all over—it's too late," added the Chouette, after listening for a moment attentively; "they have gone by. You shall pay for that, gallows-bird," added she, furiously, shaking her fist at her accomplice. "A thousand francs lost by your stupidity!"
"A thousand—two thousand—perhaps three thousand gained," replied the Schoolmaster, in a tone of authority. "Listen, Chouette! Do you go back to Barbillon, and let him drive you to the place where you were to meet the man in mourning. Tell him that it was impossible to do anything to-day, but that to-morrow she shall be carried off. The young girl goes every evening to walk home with the priest, and it was only a chance which to-day led her to meet with any one. To-morrow we shall have a more secure opportunity. So to-morrow do you return and be with Barbillon at the cross-road in his coach at the same hour."
"But thou—thou?"