"And where do you come from, vaurien?" asked she as he came in.
He did not reply; he was not prepared with a lie, and he feared to tell the truth. Pelagie, accustomed to prompt and ready answers from her victims, turned round and stared at him, surprised beyond measure at this unwonted hesitation.
"Do you hear, little beast, do you hear!" she screamed presently. "Where do you come from? Why don't you answer me?" And she seized him violently by the arm.
"Pray don't beat me!" said the child imploringly. "I will tell you. As I was passing over St. Michael's Bridge, I—I found—a bag—"
"A bag!" exclaimed Pelagie, still holding him fast. "A bag of what? Quick! quick! Speak faster!"
"Of gold," whispered the child, trembling, for he knew now that he should suffer for what he had done.
"Of gold? of gold? Where is it? Give it to me!" And she fumbled about his little breast, as if she thought it must be hidden there.
"I haven't got it!" said the boy, whose cheeks waxed paler and paler, but whose blue eyes met hers for once undauntedly. "I carried it to the Commissary of Police."
For one moment the drunken fury looked at him silently, and then burst forth in bitter curses and bitterer blows. Hard and fast they fell on the young head and tender face; he was knocked down and kicked up again—hurled against the wall—pushed into the fire-place—and at last thrown upon the cranky table, which fell with so terrible a crash that the noise fortunately brought up the tenants of the story beneath in time to prevent a murder; for it is too probable that would have been the end of this frightful scene, if no one had come to save poor Marcel.