Paccard took Jacques Collin’s hand and kissed it respectfully.
“And what must I do?” said he.
“Nothing; and you will have dividends and women, to say nothing of your wife—for you have a touch of the Regency about you, old boy!—That comes of being such a fine man!”
Paccard colored under his sultan’s ironical praises.
“You, Prudence,” Jacques went on, “will want a career, a position, a future; you must remain in my service. Listen to me. There is a very good house in the Rue Sainte-Barbe belonging to that Madame de Saint-Esteve, whose name my aunt occasionally borrows. It is a very good business, with plenty of custom, bringing in fifteen to twenty thousand francs a year. Saint-Esteve puts a woman in to keep the shop——”
“La Gonore,” said Jacqueline.
“Poor la Pouraille’s moll,” said Paccard. “That is where I bolted to with Europe the day that poor Madame van Bogseck died, our mis’ess.”
“Who jabbers when I am speaking?” said Jacques Collin.
Perfect silence fell in the coach. Paccard and Prudence did not dare look at each other.
“The shop is kept by la Gonore,” Jacques Collin went on. “If that is where you went to hide with Prudence, I see, Paccard, that you have wit enough to dodge the reelers (mislead the police), but not enough to puzzle the old lady,” and he stroked his aunt’s chin. “Now I see how she managed to find you.—It all fits beautifully. You may go back to la Gonore.—To go on: Jacqueline will arrange with Madame Nourrisson to purchase her business in the Rue Sainte-Barbe; and if you manage well, child, you may make a fortune out of it,” he said to Prudence. “An Abbess at your age! It is worthy of a Daughter of France,” he added in a hard tone.