M. Moche was lost in astonishment at the strange attitude of the two and the amazing things they were saying! Bending down over the sink, Nini and Paulet were letting the water pour over each other’s hands, which they were soaping in feverish haste, while red soapsuds dripped between their fingers into the trough.
Paulet was saying:
“Buck up, Nini! Don’t let the flies grow on you ... once the stuff dries on our fingers, there’d be the devil’s own job to get it off afterwards!”
“I know that,” muttered Nini in a trembling voice. Then she added:
“But, look, I’ve got some on my apron, too.”
“Lather it well,” her lover told her, “and if it won’t come off, we’ll chuck the thing in the fire.”
Paulet half turned round and reached down from a shelf a heavy hammer stained with blood, which he set to work to sponge carefully.
“That’s mighty dangerous, too,” he observed, “if it’s not wiped clean.”
M. Moche could form a pretty shrewd notion of what had occurred before he arrived. Mechanically he mounted the three or four steps that still separated him from the landing of the floor occupied by Paulet and Nini.
The door stood ajar—a crazy piece of imprudence! M. Moche pushed it open softly and made his way stealthily along the little passage at the end of which was the kitchen.