“Where are my sabots, Petit Bossu?� she demanded, her fierce little eyes travelling around the room, and her lips very red. “I came for them myself, you are so slow.�
“You do not need them, Mère Tigrane,� the cobbler replied coolly, eying her feet; “your sabots are as good as new. I did not promise the others until St. Bartholomew’s day.�
She began to grumble, moving over to the fire and peering into the pot-au-feu.
“Dame! but you live well, Charlot,� she remarked. “The sight of the damned corpse gave me also an appetite. Mère de Dieu! how white and tender her flesh was! ’Twould have made a good pottage,� she added laughing, her yellow teeth showing against her blood-red tongue like the fangs of a she-wolf—verily, she merited her name.
“You should arrange with Adolphe,� the hunchback said coolly. “I will send you your sabots on Wednesday.�
“Eh! but I’ll come for them,� she replied with a wink; “I love to come to visit you.�
The cobbler grunted, moving slowly and painfully—as he did at times—to the shop. But Mère Tigrane was reluctant to follow him,—she was listening; she thought she heard a step overhead.
“Charlot,� she said amiably, “how much do you get for your room above?�
“I do not rent it,� he replied calmly, but he too was listening.
Happily, the sounds above ceased.