“You said in his name?”
“Exactly.”
“But—suppose he should find it out?”
“In that case, and supposing also that you had not the wit to persuade him that such were his orders, our little enterprise is at an end. I have told you that there must be risk. Bah!” she continued, suddenly becoming fierce again, “you do not fear to be a villain, Ignace, provided you may have the profit without the danger. You can creep, but you cannot spring.”
She did not look unlike a wild-cat herself, with her round black eyes sparkling, her hands making energetic passes in the air. M. Roulleau was in an agony lest any one should hear her imprudent words.
“Hush-h-h,” he said tremulously, “I am not so clever as you, Zénobie, I do not affirm it. Only tell me what you would have me do.”
“Do!” she cried in her high-pitched voice. And then, with one of those sudden strange checks by which she controlled her passion, she changed back to her contemptuous manner. “You can never be any thing but what you are, but you may be useful in your own way. Do? Go and creep, Ignace.”