The unlucky Jacobin was wandering about like a lost dog, a shabby, dejected figure. Toto, at play, recognized his master's former partner, and jumped up in amiable recognition. Despard kicked him, and the poodle, unaccustomed to rude treatment, fled to François. The thief's long face grew savage and stern; to hurt Toto was a deadly offense.
"Pardon, monsieur," he said to the marquis, and went swiftly to where Despard stood against the wall.
"Look here, rascal," said François; "if ever thou dost kick that dog again, I will twist thy neck."
Despard did not seem to take in his meaning.
"It is thou, François. There is the ci-devant—the marquis. I followed him. I—Pierre Despard—I denounced him. I did it. I am not afraid."
"Stuff! Didst thou hear me? What have I to do with ci-devant marquises? Thou hast kicked Toto."
"I see him; I must speak with him."
"Fichtre! he is mad," said the thief, and went after him.
At the coming of Despard, ragged, wild-eyed, excited, the group about the tall gentleman turned.
Despard paused before him. "It is my turn now! I followed—I followed—I denounced thee—I, Pierre Despard. They will let me out when thou art to die; it will be soon. I will take thy child—thy bastard—my wife's child. We will go to see thee—I and thy hunchback—to see thee on the tumbrel at the guillotine. She hath thy own cold eyes—frozen eyes. Thou wilt know her by those when thou art waiting—waiting—shivering."