Poupart listened with a sardonic solemnity. He caught Paul’s eye, and nudged him with his elbow.
“Push her downstairs.”
Paul laughed.
“La Croix would have done that years ago if he had not been a fool.”
“I understand what you are saying, quite well, Monsieur Poupart. No one has been able to break my neck for me.”
“What a pity, madame!” said the man.
Monsieur Talmas’ cart entered Beaucourt by the Bonnière road, and just beyond the gates of the factory, where a number of workmen were lounging, they passed a waggon drawn in at the side of the road and laden with the sections of a hut. Brent, who had been looking at the factory, felt himself nudged by Monsieur Poupart’s sharp elbow.
“Look there!”
Ten yards beyond the waggon a man was sitting on the grass bank, the man whose closed eyelids seemed sunk in their eye-sockets. A girl with red hair was standing beside the man, a girl with narrow lips and a prominent bosom. She was speaking to the driver of the waggon who was unhooking his horses.
“It is Louis Blanc,” said the shopkeeper, staring inquisitively at the woman.