“I counted eleven hands which, with you and me, would make thirteen souls on board.”
“Well,” said Sagesse, helping himself from the glass, “what of that?”
“Thirteen was an unlucky number.”
“So you believe in that nonsense?”
“Do not you?”
“No.”
“Well, look—what has happened since we started?”
“Nothing that I know of.”
“Think!”
Gaspard was working himself up, impulse and imagination were laying their hands on him; he forgot safety, he forgot Marie, he forgot even himself in the anger of his soul before this smooth-faced scoundrel, this cold calculator of chances, this murderer with the soul of a store-keeper.