"I am the friend of Fouquier. Fouquier promised me to-day that in two more weeks we could put out a sign, 'To let.' Isn't he kind to us, though? He's very sympathetic, is Fouquier. And I am his friend—I, Eugène Franz Cramoisin. He honors me with his confidence. Eat in peace. I'll speak to him about you. Don't worry."
He swaggered on, vaunting his intimacy, loudly assuring them he brought good luck.
Nicole anxiously repeated her question.
"He keeps up the farce of being a prisoner," her neighbor answered.
"Where does he lodge?"
"Near you, where the new arrivals are put."
"Sangdieu!" rose again the voice of Cramoisin, who, farther down, had halted at the side of a woman. "The herring is rotten. Do you not see it? Come, you must complain."
"It is all I need," came the faint answer. "I am not hungry."
"Bah, you aristocrats, you haven't the courage of dogs!" He returned to another: "And you, young man, they treat you badly, eh? Shall I complain to Fouquier?"