"I—Quatre Pattes? Three hundred francs! I?"
"If I return not to give further orders before twelve, thou mayst ask the municipals to be here at four. That will save trouble. He will then be in no way to swear thou hast his money. That may be the best plan. I have no mind to get thee into trouble. Now, hold thy tongue; and remember, it will be the little cripple Couthon who will reckon with thee if in this business thou dost fail."
"This is all very well if thou dost not return; but who will pay me if thou art of a mind to come and take him away thyself?"
"'T is a sharp old Crab," laughed François. "If I come for him, I promise thee he shall pay thee full rent; and here is his denier à Dieu, maman." He cast another louis in her lap. "If I come not by noon, get all you can, and denounce him as a suspect; but remember—not till four."
"Queue du diable! 'T is a fine transaction," cried the Crab, and knocked her sticks together for emphasis. "We will bleed him like a doctor; we will send in the bill under the door; and then—we will have some nice municipals for sextons. Ha! ha! It is well to have the credit on one's little carte de sûreté."
François assured her that the plan was good. At this point, however, she became suddenly suspicious. She stood crouching over her sticks, the snake-like head slowly moving from side to side, her eyes searching the thief's smiling face. "Why is the man to be kept? What is it?"
He expected this. "Ask Couthon the palsied that, thou imbecile. I will take him elsewhere. There are a dozen houses where they ask no questions. Yes or no?"
"Yes, yes!" Caution was put to sleep by greed; or, more truly, by want, which was nearing its extremity.
He felt secure. "If he should ring before I get down-stairs, let him wait. Now, the ink and key."
"Is he to make his will? Thou wilt not be long?"