“You have come too soon,” he said, without attempting to free his arms, which were held, as if by a vice, at the elbow and shoulder. “You have come too soon, gentlemen! There is no money in the carriage. Not so much as a sou.”
“It is not for money that we have come,” replied the man who had first spoken—and the absolute silence of his companion was obviously the silence of a subordinate.
“Though, for a larger sum than monsieur is likely to offer, one might make a mistake, and allow of escape—who knows?”
The remark was made with the cynical honesty of dishonesty which had so lately been introduced into France by him who was now Dictator of that facile people.
“Oh! I offer nothing,” replied Barebone. “For a good reason. I have nothing to offer. If you are not thieves, what are you?”
The carriage was rattling along the Rue Lafayette, over the cobble-stones, and the inmates, though their faces were close together, had to shout in order to be heard.
“Of the police,” was the reply. “Of the high police. I fancy that monsieur’s affair is political?”
“Why should you fancy that?”
“Because my comrade and I are not engaged on other cases. The criminal receives very different treatment. Permit me to assure you of that. And no consideration whatever. The common police is so unmannerly. There!—one may well release the arms—since we understand each other.”
“I shall not try to escape—if that is what you mean,” replied Barebone, with a laugh.