"Still, when he has done singing all the songs he knows, to pass away the time, his days must hang precious heavy on his hands."
"The Chouette says that he amuses himself with rat-hunting, and that the cellar is full of game."
"I say, Nicholas, talking of certain persons who must be tired, and fume, and fret," remarked Calabash, with a savage smile, and pointing to the window fastened up with the iron plates, "there is one there who must be ready to devour his own flesh and blood."
"Bah! He's asleep. Since the morning he hasn't stirred, and his dog is silent."
"Perhaps he has strangled him for food. For two days, they must both be desperate hungry and thirsty up there together."
"That is their affair. Martial may still last a long time in this way, if it amuses him. When it is done, why, we shall say he died of his complaint, and there'll be an end of that affair."
"Do you think so?"
"Of course I do. As mother went to Asnières this morning, she met Père Férot, the fisherman, and, as he was very much astonished at not having seen his friend Martial for the last two days, mother told him that Martial was confined to his bed, and was so ill that his life was despaired of. Daddy Férot swallowed all, like so much honey; he'll tell everybody else, and when the thing's done and over, why, it'll all seem nat'ral enough."
"Yes, but he won't die directly; this way is a tedious one."
"What else is to be done? There was no way of doing otherwise. That devil of a Martial, when he's put up, is as full of mischief as the old one himself, and as strong as a bull; particularly when he suspects anything, it is dangerous to approach him; but, now his door is well nailed up on the outside, what can he do? His window is strongly fastened with iron, too."