"I have lost my way, monsieur," he answered in a whining voice.
"How strange! So have I! We may as well keep each other company. Don't look like that, I am not going to hurt you."
"I feared monsieur meant to kill me," he whimpered.
"Bah! I only want a little information, which will be well paid for. Are you willing to earn ten crowns?"
"Ten crowns, monsieur? Certainly."
"Then tell me what you do in the Rue Crillon and who pays you? Answer these questions and here are the ten crowns."
"And if not, monsieur?" said he, still whining like a beggar.
"If not it will be the worse for you. Quick, make your choice, I cannot stay here for ever."
It was the rascal's turn now to laugh, as some one, throwing a heavy mantle over my head, tripped me up violently.
"His sword, quick! Take it away! Tie his arms firmly; he is a mad bull for fighting. Now his pistols, François, you fat pig! Softly monsieur! Tap him on the head if he struggles. Are you ready, Pierre? What a time! are your fingers in knots? Now, monsieur, your choice—will you come quietly or must we use force?"