The boy sank lower in his chair.
"It will be jail for me," he said, "unless you help me. Give me five hundred francs. I tell you I am in a bad fix. Sacré bon Dieu!—you shall give it to me!" he cried, half springing from his chair.
"Shut up, thou," whispered the girl—"not so fast!"
"Do you think it rains money here?" returned Julie, closing her red fists upon the table, "that all you have to do is to ask for it? Ah, mais non, alors!"
The boy slunk back in his chair staring at the tallow dip disconsolately. The girl gritted her small teeth—somehow, she felt abler than he to get it out of Julie in the end.
"You stole it, hein?" cried Julie, "like your father. Name of a dog! it is the same old trick that, and it brings no good. Allons!" she resumed after a short pause. "Dépêche toi! Get out for your ducks—I'm going to bed."
"Give me four hundred," pleaded the boy.
"Not a sou!" cried Julie, bringing her fist down on the greasy table, and she shot a jealous glance at the girl.
Without a word, young Garron rose dejectedly, got into his goatskin coat, picked up his gun and, turning, beckoned to the girl.
"Go on!" she cried; "I'll come later."