M. Plon retreated a second time before this demonstration, and again lifted his voice for the police.
"They'll be here fast enough, no doubt," said Jean quietly, though there was a bitter feeling of downfall in his heart. "Meanwhile, perhaps it might be as well for me to tell you who I am."
"Who you are?" repeated M. Plon indignantly. "It's easy enough to see that, my fine fellow, though what you could expect to steal here is not so clear. You've got the air of a gallows bird, and it's well this poor child has me—the brave Plon—to protect her."
"Come, come, M. Plon—listen to reason. I'm the husband of Madame Didier."
"The husband of Madame Didier? What, when she hasn't got one!" cried the other, now fairly enraged.
"Nevertheless, you might remember Jean Didier—if only you would," said Jean imploringly, for he began to think there was yet a chance for him if he could conciliate his landlord, and he made a few steps towards him holding out his hands. But Périne screamed and Plon waved him energetically back. Finding his prisoner cowed he launched some strong invectives at him.
"You're a thief and a cut-throat, that's what you are!" he said, shivering. "Keep off, keep off! You could no more stand in Jean Didier's shoes than you could in mine, for he was a decent, peaceable young fellow, and more than that, he was shot. So you've got hold of the wrong story here, Monsieur Blacklegs, and one that won't serve you much in the violon."
"It's true, I give you my word," said Jean.
"They did their best to shoot me, but I was only wounded. Marie got me up here, and here I have been ever since."
"Was there ever such a cool hand!" cried Plon wrathfully. "And you absolutely think to persuade me of this when not a soul comes in and out of this house without my knowing. A pretty tale!"