“Oh! how stupid that is! I don’t want you to do such things to me!”
Poterne began to roar so that Chérubin might not hear what Chichette said. He brandished his dagger with one hand, while with the other he stuffed the flax back into his mouth, whence it had almost escaped. But Chérubin had lost his head; the presence of that man, whose wife he believed that he had abducted, his outcries, his oaths, and the dagger he was brandishing, terrified the young man beyond words. Poterne, seeing that he was in a condition to submit to whatever terms he might impose, took the notes from his pocket, placed them on the table, found a pen and inkstand and presented them to Chérubin.
“If you wish to save this guilty woman, god dem!” he said, “there is only one way to appease my wrath.”
“Oh! speak, monsieur, command—All you choose.”
“Fill out these notes of hand—here are four of them—make them twenty-five thousand francs each. Per Diou! that is too poco!”
“Notes of hand—for a hundred thousand francs?”
“Yes, signor.”
“Oh! you want me to——”
“If you hesitate, sapermann! I will kill this guilty wife of mine, I will kill you, I will kill everyone in the house—fichtre!—and then myself.”
“Oh! no, no, I do not hesitate, monsieur. I will make them for whatever sums you say.”