“I know how sweet you are on la Biffe,” said Jacques Collin to this man.
The expression in le Biffon’s eyes was a horrible poem.
“What will she do while you are on the hulks?”
A tear sparkled in le Biffon’s fierce eyes.
“Well, suppose I were to get her lodgings in the Lorcefe des Largues” (the women’s La Force, i. e. les Madelonnettes or Saint-Lazare) “for a stretch, allowing that time for you to be sentenced and sent there, to arrive and to escape?”
“Even you cannot work such a miracle. She took no part in the job,” replied la Biffe’s partner.
“Oh, my good Biffon,” said la Pouraille, “our boss is more powerful than God Almighty.”
“What is your password for her?” asked Jacques Collin, with the assurance of a master to whom nothing can be refused.
“Sorgue a Pantin (night in Paris). If you say that she knows you have come from me, and if you want her to do as you bid her, show her a five-franc piece and say Tondif.”
“She will be involved in the sentence on la Pouraille, and let off with a year in quod for snitching,” said Jacques Collin, looking at la Pouraille.