“And I was fool enough to waste all that cleverness for a thousand crowns!”
“No, for a woman,” replied Jacques Collin. “I tell you, they deprive us of all our wits,” and Jacques Collin eyed Theodore with a flashing glance of contempt.
“But you were not there!” said the Corsican; “I was all alone——”
“And do you love the slut?” asked Jacques Collin, feeling that the reproach was a just one.
“Oh! I want to live, but it is for you now rather than for her.”
“Be quite easy, I am not called Trompe-la-Mort for nothing. I undertake the case.”
“What! life?” cried the lad, lifting his swaddled hands towards the damp vault of the cell.
“My little Madeleine, prepare to be lagged for life (penal servitude),” replied Jacques Collin. “You can expect no less; they won’t crown you with roses like a fatted ox. When they first set us down for Rochefort, it was because they wanted to be rid of us! But if I can get you ticketed for Toulon, you can get out and come back to Pantin (Paris), where I will find you a tidy way of living.”
A sigh such as had rarely been heard under that inexorable roof struck the stones, which sent back the sound that has no fellow in music, to the ear of the astounded Bibi-Lupin.
“It is the effect of the absolution I promised him in return for his revelations,” said Jacques Collin to the gendarme. “These Corsicans, monsieur, are full of faith! But he is as innocent as the Immaculate Babe, and I mean to try to save him.”