Mademoiselle Jacqueline Collin’s amazement on seeing Jacques Collin in the Salle des Pas-Perdus is beyond imagining.  She stood square on her feet, her hands on her hips, for she was dressed as a costermonger.  Accustomed as she was to her nephew’s conjuring tricks, this beat everything.

“Well, if you are going to stare at me as if I were a natural history show,” said Jacques Collin, taking his aunt by the arm and leading her out of the hall, “we shall be taken for a pair of curious specimens; they may take us into custody, and then we should lose time.”

And he went down the stairs of the Galerie Marchande leading to the Rue de la Barillerie.  “Where is Paccard?”

“He is waiting for me at la Rousse’s, walking up and down the flower market.”

“And Prudence?”

“Also at her house, as my god-daughter.”

“Let us go there.”

“Look round and see if we are watched.”

La Rousse, a hardware dealer living on the Quai aux Fleurs, was the widow of a famous murderer, one of the “Ten Thousand.”  In 1819, Jacques Collin had faithfully handed over twenty thousand francs and odd to this woman from her lover, after he had been executed. Trompe-la-Mort was the only person who knew of his pal’s connection with the girl, at that time a milliner.

“I am your young man’s boss,” the boarder at Madame Vauquer’s had told her, having sent for her to meet him at the Jardin des Plantes.  “He may have mentioned me to you, my dear.—­Any one who plays me false dies within a year; on the other hand, those who are true to me have nothing to fear from me.  I am staunch through thick and thin, and would die without saying a word that would compromise anybody I wish well to.  Stick to me as a soul sticks to the Devil, and you will find the benefit of it.  I promised your poor Auguste that you should be happy; he wanted to make you a rich woman, and he got scragged for your sake.

“Don’t cry; listen to me.  No one in the world knows that you were mistress to a convict, to the murderer they choked off last Saturday; and I shall never tell.  You are two-and-twenty, and pretty, and you have twenty-six thousand francs of your own; forget Auguste and get married; be an honest woman if you can.  In return for peace and quiet, I only ask you to serve me now and then, me, and any one I may send you, but without stopping to think.  I will never ask you to do anything that can get you into trouble, you or your children, or your husband, if you get one, or your family.

“In my line of life I often want a safe place to talk in or to hide in.  Or I may want a trusty woman to carry a letter or do an errand.  You will be one of my letter-boxes, one of my porters’ lodges, one of my messengers, neither more nor less.

“You are too red-haired; Auguste and I used to call you la Rousse; you can keep that name.  My aunt, an old-clothes dealer at the Temple, who will come and see you, is the only person in the world you are to obey; tell her everything that happens to you; she will find you a husband, and be very useful to you.”