“Here, I’ve brought you the indomitable chief of our enemies. Have you a feeding bottle?”
“Here,” he said to Victoire, who woke with a start. “I’ve brought you the indomitable chief of our enemies, the Hercules of the gang. Have you a feeding-bottle about you?”
He put down in the easy-chair a child of six or seven years of age, the tiniest little fellow in a gray jersey and a knitted woollen cap, whose pale and exquisitely pretty features were streaked with the tears that streamed from the terrified eyes.
“Where did you pick that up?” asked Victoire, aghast.
“At the foot of the stairs, as it was coming out of Daubrecq’s bedroom,” replied Lupin, feeling the jersey in the hope that the child had brought a booty of some kind from that room.
Victoire was stirred to pity:
“Poor little dear! Look, he’s trying not to cry!... Oh, saints above, his hands are like ice! Don’t be afraid, sonnie, we sha’n’t hurt you: the gentleman’s all right.”
“Yes,” said Lupin, “the gentleman’s quite all right, but there’s another very wicked gentleman who’ll wake up if they go on making such a rumpus outside the hall-door. Do you hear them, Victoire?”
“Who is it?”