"It is turned, monsieur. I see nothing. Monsieur throws little stones at the birds to amuse himself. It does not concern me."
Ste. Marie slipped a pebble under the flap of the envelope and threw his letter over the wall. It went like a soaring bird, whirling horizontally, and it must have fallen far out in the middle of the road near the tramway. For the third time that morning the prisoner drew a sigh. He said—
"You may turn round now, my friend," and the old Michel faced him.
"We have shot our last arrow," said he. "If this also fails, I think—well, I think the bon Dieu will have to help us then.
"Michel," he inquired, "do you know how to pray?"
"Sacred thousand swine, no!" cried the ancient gnome in something between astonishment and horror. "No, monsieur. Pas mon metier, ça!" He shook his head rapidly from side to side like one of those toys in a shop window whose heads oscillate upon a pivot. But all at once a gleam of inspiration sparkled in his lone eye.
"There is the old Justine!" he suggested. "Toujours sur les genoux, cette imbécile la."
"In that case," said Ste. Marie, "you might ask the lady to say one little extra prayer for—the pebble I threw at the birds just now. Hein?" He withdrew from his pocket the last two louis d'or, and Michel took them in a trembling hand. There remained but the note of fifty francs and some silver.
"The prayer shall be said, monsieur," declared the gardener. "It shall be said. She shall pray all night or I will kill her."
"Thank you!" said Ste. Marie. "You are kindness itself. A gentle soul."