And thus the bargain was struck, a diabolical compact like that which had for so long bound Prudence Servien to Jacques Collin, and which the man never failed to tighten; for, like the Devil, he had a passion for recruiting.

In about 1821 Jacques Collin found la Rousse a husband in the person of the chief shopman under a rich wholesale tin merchant.  This head-clerk, having purchased his master’s house of business, was now a prosperous man, the father of two children, and one of the district Maire’s deputies.  La Rousse, now Madame Prelard, had never had the smallest ground for complaint, either of Jacques Collin or of his aunt; still, each time she was required to help them, Madame Prelard quaked in every limb.  So, as she saw the terrible couple come into her shop, she turned as pale as death.

“We want to speak to you on business, madame,” said Jacques Collin.

“My husband is in there,” said she.

“Very well; we have no immediate need of you.  I never put people out of their way for nothing.”

“Send for a hackney coach, my dear,” said Jacqueline Collin, “and tell my god-daughter to come down.  I hope to place her as maid to a very great lady, and the steward of the house will take us there.”

A shop-boy fetched the coach, and a few minutes later Europe, or, to be rid of the name under which she had served Esther, Prudence Servien, Paccard, Jacques Collin, and his aunt, were, to la Rousse’s great joy, packed into a coach, ordered by Trompe-la-Mort to drive to the Barriere d’Ivry.

Prudence and Paccard, quaking in presence of the boss, felt like guilty souls in the presence of God.

“Where are the seven hundred and fifty thousand francs?” asked the boss, looking at them with the clear, penetrating gaze which so effectually curdled the blood of these tools of his, these ames damnees, when they were caught tripping, that they felt as though their scalp were set with as many pins as hairs.

“The seven hundred and thirty thousand francs,” said Jacqueline Collin to her nephew, “are quite safe; I gave them to la Romette this morning in a sealed packet.”

“If you had not handed them over to Jacqueline,” said Trompe-la-Mort, “you would have gone straight there,” and he pointed to the Place de Greve, which they were just passing.

Prudence Servien, in her country fashion, made the sign of the Cross, as if she had seen a thunderbolt fall.

“I forgive you,” said the boss, “on condition of your committing no more mistakes of this kind, and of your being henceforth to me what these two fingers are of my right hand,” and he pointed to the first and middle fingers, “for this good woman is the thumb,” and he slapped his aunt on the shoulder.

“Listen to me,” he went on.  “You, Paccard, have nothing more to fear; you may follow your nose about Pantin (Paris) as you please.  I give you leave to marry Prudence Servien.”