"Alive? Not quite; only well scared. Imagine thyself one day on the red stair, and the basket all ready, and so neat,—thou art fond of neatness,—all as clean as thy room; and the knife—"
"Shut up that big jaw! I am Quatre Pattes. Dost thou want to frighten me?"
"I? By St. Fiacre, no! I only want to let thee understand how the citizen on the fourth floor feels."
"He will bleed the better, my dear." She rattled the sticks, and looked up at François, her head swaying as the head of the cobra sways. She was still in some doubt as to this too ready pupil, whom she had taught so much. "Art thou trying to fool Mother Quatre Pattes?"
"Oh, stuff! Go up and speak to the man. But take care; this is no light matter to put thy claws into. The man will rage; but a day without diet will quiet him a good bit. Then thou canst begin to make thy little commercial arrangement."
"Two hundred—three hundred. No rags, no assignats."
"Might get four hundred, Mother Crabby. There will be two sides to the question."
The old woman laughed a laugh shrill and virulent.
"Two sides? I see—inside and outside. All right."
François stood in the doorway as she spoke.