“Perhaps.”
“By the God of good-fellowship, there is no blood in your veins! And I was thinking of saving you!”
“How?”
“Idiot, if we promise to give the money back to the family, you will only be lagged for life. I would not give a piece for your nut if we keep the blunt, but at this moment you are worth seven hundred thousand francs, you flat.”
“Good for you, boss!” cried la Pouraille in great glee.
“And then,” said Jacques Collin, “besides casting all the murders on Ruffard—Bibi-Lupin will be finely cold. I have him this time.”
La Pouraille was speechless at this suggestion; his eyes grew round, and he stood like an image.
He had been three months in custody, and was committed for trial, and his chums at La Force, to whom he had never mentioned his accomplices, had given him such small comfort, that he was entirely hopeless after his examination, and this simple expedient had been quite overlooked by these prison-ridden minds. This semblance of a hope almost stupefied his brain.
“Have Ruffard and Godet had their spree yet? Have they forked out any of the yellow boys?” asked Jacques Collin.
“They dare not,” replied la Pouraille. “The wretches are waiting till I am turned off. That is what my moll sent me word by la Biffe when she came to see le Biffon.”