“Why, what’s the matter?” asked the clerk, taking back the money.
“The matter! Why, the hussy stole it!” cried Bibi-Lupin, stamping with rage on the flags of the gateway.
The words produced a great sensation among the spectators, who were standing at a little distance from Monsieur Sanson. He, too, was still standing, his back against the large stove in the middle of the vaulted hall, awaiting the order to crop the felon’s hair and erect the scaffold on the Place de Greve.
On re-entering the yard, Jacques Collin went towards his chums at a pace suited to a frequenter of the galleys.
“What have you on your mind?” said he to la Pouraille.
“My game is up,” said the man, whom Jacques Collin led into a corner. “What I want now is a pal I can trust.”
“What for?”
La Pouraille, after telling the tale of all his crimes, but in thieves’ slang, gave an account of the murder and robbery of the two Crottats.
“You have my respect,” said Jacques Collin. “The job was well done; but you seem to me to have blundered afterwards.”
“In what way?”