Fil-de-Soie, an egotistical philosopher, who thieved to provide for the future, was a good deal like Paccard, Jacques Collin’s satellite, who had fled with Prudence Servien and the seven hundred and fifty thousand francs between them.  He had no attachment, he condemned women, and loved no one but Fil-de-Soie.

As to le Biffon, he derived his nickname from his connection with la Biffe. (La Biffe is scavenging, rag-picking.) And these three distinguished members of la haute pegre, the aristocracy of roguery, had a reckoning to demand of Jacques Collin, accounts that were somewhat hard to bring to book.

No one but the cashier could know how many of his clients were still alive, and what each man’s share would be.  The mortality to which the depositors were peculiarly liable had formed a basis for Trompe-la-Mort’s calculations when he resolved to embezzle the funds for Lucien’s benefit.  By keeping himself out of the way of the police and of his pals for nine years, Jacques Collin was almost certain to have fallen heir, by the terms of the agreement among the associates, to two-thirds of the depositors.  Besides, could he not plead that he had repaid the pals who had been scragged?  In fact, no one had any hold over these Great Pals.  His comrades trusted him by compulsion, for the hunted life led by convicts necessitates the most delicate confidence between the gentry of this crew of savages.  So Jacques Collin, a defaulter for a hundred thousand crowns, might now possibly be quit for a hundred thousand francs.  At this moment, as we see, la Pouraille, one of Jacques Collin’s creditors, had but ninety days to live.  And la Pouraille, the possessor of a sum vastly greater, no doubt, than that placed in his pal’s keeping, would probably prove easy to deal with.

One of the infallible signs by which prison governors and their agents, the police and warders, recognize old stagers (chevaux de retour), that is to say, men who have already eaten beans (les gourganes, a kind of haricots provided for prison fare), is their familiarity with prison ways; those who have been in before, of course, know the manners and customs; they are at home, and nothing surprises them.

And Jacques Collin, thoroughly on his guard, had, until now, played his part to admiration as an innocent man and stranger, both at La Force and at the Conciergerie.  But now, broken by grief, and by two deaths—­for he had died twice over during that dreadful night—­he was Jacques Collin once more.  The warder was astounded to find that the Spanish priest needed no telling as to the way to the prison-yard.  The perfect actor forgot his part; he went down the corkscrew stairs in the Tour Bonbec as one who knew the Conciergerie.

“Bibi-Lupin is right,” said the turnkey to himself; “he is an old stager; he is Jacques Collin.”