Madame had again nodded, this time less cryptically and more violently, at her husband, and Pasbeaucoup, between twin terrors, timidly suggested:
“Monsieur Cartaret comprehends that it is only because of the so high cost of necessities that it is necessary for us to request——”
He stopped there, but the voice from the cage boomed courageously:
“The payment in advance!”
“A custom of the establishment,” explained Houdon grandly, but shooting a venomous glance in the direction of Madame.
Seraphin came quietly from behind his table and, slipping a thin arm through Cartaret’s, drew him, to the speechless amazement of the other participants in this scene, toward the farthest corner of the café.
“My friend,” he whispered, “you must not do it.”
“Eh?” said Cartaret. “Why not? It’s a queer thing to be asked, but why shouldn’t I do it?”
Seraphin hesitated. Then, regaining the conquest over self, he put his lips so close to the American’s ear that the Frenchman’s wagging wisps of whisker tickled his auditor’s cheek.
“This Houdon is but a pleasant coquin,” he confided. “He will suck from you the last sou’s worth of your blood.”