“Well!” said Modeste, “why should Dumay kill him?”
“Sancta simplicita!” ejaculated Butscha, looking at his master as proudly as Alexander is made to contemplate Babylon in Lebrun’s great picture.
“Where are you going, Modeste?” asked the mother as her daughter rose to leave the room.
“To get ready for your bedtime, mamma,” answered Modeste, in a voice as pure as the tones of an instrument.
“You haven’t paid your expenses,” said the dwarf to Dumay when he returned.
“Modeste is as pure as the Virgin on our altar,” cried Madame Latournelle.
“Good God! such excitements wear me out,” said Dumay; “and yet I’m a strong man.”
“May I lose that twenty-five sous if I have the slightest idea what you are about,” remarked Gobenheim. “You seem to me to be crazy.”
“And yet it is all about a treasure,” said Butscha, standing on tiptoe to whisper in Gobenheim’s ear.
“Dumay, I am sorry to say that I am still almost certain of what I told you,” persisted Madame Mignon.