“Paccard is out there,” said the pious Marquise, pointing to the chasseur, her eyes full of tears.

This intuitive comprehension brought not merely a smile to the man’s lips, but a gesture of surprise; no one could astonish him but his aunt.  The sham Marquise turned to the bystanders with the air of a woman accustomed to give herself airs.

“He is in despair at being unable to attend his son’s funeral,” said she in broken French, “for this monstrous miscarriage of justice has betrayed the saintly man’s secret.—­I am going to the funeral mass.  —­Here, monsieur,” she added to the Governor, handing him a purse of gold, “this is to give your poor prisoners some comforts.”

“What slap-up style!” her nephew whispered in approval.

Jacques Collin then followed the warder, who led him back to the yard.

Bibi-Lupin, quite desperate, had at last caught the eye of a real gendarme, to whom, since Jacques Collin had gone, he had been addressing significant “Ahems,” and who took his place on guard in the condemned cell.  But Trompe-la-Mort’s sworn foe was released too late to see the great lady, who drove off in her dashing turn-out, and whose voice, though disguised, fell on his ear with a vicious twang.

“Three hundred shiners for the boarders,” said the head warder, showing Bibi-Lupin the purse, which Monsieur Gault had handed over to his clerk.

“Let’s see, Monsieur Jacomety,” said Bibi-Lupin.

The police agent took the purse, poured out the money into his hand, and examined it curiously.

“Yes, it is gold, sure enough!” said he, “and a coat-of-arms on the purse!  The scoundrel!  How clever he is!  What an all-round villain!  He does us all brown——­and all the time!  He ought to be shot down like a dog!”

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked the clerk, taking back the money.

“The matter!  Why, the hussy stole it!” cried Bibi-Lupin, stamping with rage on the flags of the gateway.

The words produced a great sensation among the spectators, who were standing at a little distance from Monsieur Sanson.  He, too, was still standing, his back against the large stove in the middle of the vaulted hall, awaiting the order to crop the felon’s hair and erect the scaffold on the Place de Greve.

On re-entering the yard, Jacques Collin went towards his chums at a pace suited to a frequenter of the galleys.

“What have you on your mind?” said he to la Pouraille.

“My game is up,” said the man, whom Jacques Collin led into a corner.  “What I want now is a pal I can trust.”

“What for?”

La Pouraille, after telling the tale of all his crimes, but in thieves’ slang, gave an account of the murder and robbery of the two Crottats.

“You have my respect,” said Jacques Collin.  “The job was well done; but you seem to me to have blundered afterwards.”

“In what way?”