“The world wrongs you, then,” said Albert; “and, to say the truth, you keep up the delusion by carrying so much bullion about you. I should say, now, that the chain round your neck must be worth some fifty louis.”
Bagsby made no reply, but clutched my arm with the grasp of a cockatoo.
“This is a very dreary place,” continued Albert, in a tone that might have emanated from a sepulchre. “Last winter three men were robbed and murdered in this very passage. There is a conduit to the Seine below, and I saw the bodies next morning in the Morgue, with their throats cut from ear to ear!”
From a slight interjectional sound, I concluded that Bagsby was praying.
“These,” said the ouvrier, “are the walls of a slaughter-house: on the other side is the shed where they ordinarily keep the guillotine. Have you seen that implement yet, Mr Bagsby?”
“Mercy on us, no!” groaned the delegate. “Oh, Mr Albert, whoever you are, do take us out of this place, or I am sure I shall lose my reason! If you want my watch, say so at once, and, upon my word, you are heartily welcome.”
“Harkye, sirrah,” said Monsieur Albert: “I have more than half a mind to leave you here all night for your consummate impertinence. I knew you from the very first to be a thorough poltroon; but I shall find a proper means of chastising you. Come along, sir; we are past the lane now, and at a place where your hands may be better employed for the liberties of the people than your head ever was in inventing task-work at home.”
We now emerged into an open court, lighted by a solitary lamp. It was apparently deserted, but on a low whistle from Monsieur Albert, some twenty or thirty individuals in blouses rushed forth from the doorways and surrounded us. I own I did not feel remarkably comfortable at the moment; for although it was clear to me that our guide had merely been amusing himself at the expense of Bagsby, the apparition of his confederates was rather sudden and startling. As for Bagsby, he evidently expected no better fate than an immediate conduct to the block.
“You come late, mon capitaine,” said a bloused veteran, armed with a mattock. “They have the start of us already in the Rue des Petits Champs.”