Cigarette stuck between his lips, cap cocked over one ear, the apache gripped Ernestine by the nape of the neck, whirled the girl round, and round again, to bring her facing him, then ordered her roughly:
“Go ahead, wench; give it ’em, I say!”
At this Bougille struck up the tune, and the couple began their evolutions.
At first it was a slow waltz, with no precise rhythm, but dubious attitudes, languishing poses, embraces suggestive of passionate abandonment. Then, with a sudden brutality, the man hurled his partner away from him, caught her by the shoulders, threw her to the ground, then passing his arm under her supple waist, raised her to her feet, then lifted her up against his breast; then, three times in succession, while “Big Ernestine” lay passive, “The Beadle,” striking an attitude half Hercules, half acrobat, whirled the woman about in his arms and beat her head on the earth.
A thunder of applause broke out on every side. For sure there was not another pair to match “The Beadle” and “Big Ernestine” at dancing the Sonneuse. And what a dance it was, where the cavalier had to mimic the act of breaking his partner’s skull against the ground as apaches beat to death peaceable citizens against the curb of the sidewalk.
It was fine, it was magnificent, the crowd was thrilled, electrified, and a young blackguard, “Beauty Boy” by nickname, caught by the wave of hot enthusiasm that stirred the passions of them all, seized the opportunity to give a bite at the nape of Nini’s neck, who cuffed him soundly for his pains.
“Look where you’re going, you idiot!” roared a furious voice as “Beauty Boy” fell foul of a shabby individual in his flight to escape the offended Nini’s vengeance. It was no other than M. Moche. What could the old fellow be doing there? He was dirtier, shabbier, and more bent than ever; at sight of him, Fandor was filled with alarm, but at the same time it struck him that Moche’s presence might prove useful to him. Yes, undoubtedly, it was a piece of good luck to find the old man had come to the Blue Chestnut. Assuredly, under pretext of dancing and amusing themselves, the band must have gathered there to receive their secret instructions from the chief, who doubtless was no other than Fantômas. The moment Fandor set eyes on Père Moche, he told himself: “Ha, ha! ’twon’t be long now before a something fresh turns up!”
Meantime the journalist took good care not to show himself to the dubious individual in whose service he had been engaged for twenty-four hours. He had far from pleasant recollections of his stay at Moche’s, and it might well be the latter was equally out of conceit with him; quite possibly the old advocate believed it was he had killed the police officers, very possibly again, by way of ingratiating himself with the force, he might not hesitate to deliver up the supposed murderer into their clutches, should opportunity offer.
At the same time the young man slipped surreptitiously behind Moche, while the latter was in talk with the “Beauty Boy.” He overheard all they said:
“Lend me a yellow boy,” the young apache was asking his companion; “it’s not just for larks, I tell you, it’s for biz.”