one."
"Do you see, young man—do you see she is all impatience to be at work?"
"If she manages cleverly to get into the house, I do not think your idea a bad one."
"Take the umbrella, fourline; in half an hour I will be here again, and you shall see what I will do," said the Chouette.
"One moment, Finette; we are going down to the Bleeding Heart—only two steps from here. If the little Tortillard (cripple) is there, you had better take him with you; he will remain outside on the watch whilst you go inside the house."
"You are right—little Tortillard is as cunning as a fox; he is not ten years of age, and yet it was he who the other day—"
A signal from the Schoolmaster interrupted the Chouette.
"What does the 'Bleeding Heart' mean? It is an odd sign for a cabaret," asked Rodolph.
"You must complain to the landlord."
"What is his name?"
"The landlord of the Bleeding Heart?"
"Yes."
"What is that to you? He never asks the names of his customers."
"But, still—"
"Call him what you like—Peter, Thomas, Christopher, or Barnabas—he will answer to any and all. But here we are, and it's time we were, for the rain is coming down again in floods; and how the river roars! It has almost become a torrent! Why, look at it! Two more days of such rain, and the water will overflow the arches of the bridge."
"You say that we are there, but where the devil is the cabaret? I do not see any house here."
"Certainly not, if you look round about you."
"Where should I look, then?"
"At your feet."
"At my feet?"
"Yes."
"And whereabouts?"
"Here—look; do you see the roof? Mind, and don't step upon it."
Rodolph had not remarked one of those subterraneans which used to be seen, some years since, in certain spots in the Champs Elysées, and particularly near the Cours la Reine.
A flight of steps, cut out of the damp and greasy ground, led to the bottom of this sort of deep ditch, against one end of which, cut perpendicularly, leaned a low, mean, dilapidated hovel; its roof, covered with moss-covered tiles, was scarcely so high as the ground on which Rodolph was standing; two or three out-buildings, constructed of worm-eaten planks, serving as cellar, wood-house, and rabbit-hutches, surrounded this wretched den.
A narrow path, which extended along this ditch, led from the stairs to the door of the hut; the rest of the ground was concealed under a mass of trellis-work, which sheltered two rows of clumsy tables, fastened to the ground. A worn-out iron sign swung heavily backwards and forwards on its creaking hinges, and through the rust that covered it might still be seen a red heart pierced with an arrow. The sign was supported by a post erected above this cave—this real human burrow.
A thick and moist fog was added to the rain as night approached.
"What think you of this hôtel, young fellow?" inquired the Schoolmaster.
"Why, thanks to the torrents that have fallen for the last fortnight, it must be deliciously fresh. But come on."
"One moment—I wish to know if the landlord is in. Hark!"
The ruffian then, thrusting his tongue forcibly against his palate, produced a singular noise—a sort of guttural sound, loud and lengthened, something like P-r-r-r-r-r-r-r!!! A similar note came from the depths of the hovel.
"He's there," said the Schoolmaster. "Pardon me, young man—respect to the ladies—allow the Chouette to pass first; I follow you. Mind how you come—it's slippery."
CHAPTER XIV.
THE BLEEDING HEART.
The landlord of the Bleeding Heart, after having responded to the signal of the Schoolmaster, advanced politely to the threshold of his door.
This personage, whom Rodolph had been to see in the Cité, and whom he did not yet know under his true name, or, rather, his habitual surname, was Bras Rouge.
Lank, mean-looking, and feeble, this man might be fifty years of age. His countenance resembled both the weasel and the rat; his peaked nose, his receding chin, his high cheek-bones, his small eyes, black, restless, and keen, gave his features an indescribable expression of malice, cunning, and sagacity. An old brown wig, or, rather, as yellow as his bilious complexion, perched on the top of his head, showed the nape of the old fellow's withered neck. He had on a round jacket, and one of those long black aprons worn by the waiters at the wine shops.
Our three acquaintances had hardly descended the last step of the staircase when a child of about ten years of age, rickety, lame, and somewhat misshapen, came to rejoin Bras Rouge, whom he resembled in so striking a manner that there was no mistaking them for father and son. There was the same quick and cunning look, joined to that impudent, hardened, and knavish air, which is peculiar to the scamp (voyou) of Paris—that fearful type of precocious depravity, that real 'hemp-seed' (graine de bagne), as they style it, in the horrible slang of the gaol. The forehead of the brat was half lost beneath a thatch of yellowish locks, as harsh and stiff as horse-hair. Reddish-coloured trousers and a gray blouse, confined by a leather girdle, completed Tortillard's costume, whose nickname was derived from his infirmity. He stood close to his father, standing on his sound leg like a heron by the side of a marsh.
"Ah, here is the darling one (môme)!" said the Schoolmaster. "Finette, night is coming on, and time is pressing; we must profit by the daylight which is left to us."
"You are right, my man; I will ask the father to spare his darling."
"Good day, old friend," said Bras Rouge, addressing the Schoolmaster, in a voice which was cracked, sharp, and shrill. "What can I do for you?"
"Why, if you could spare your 'small boy' to my mistress for a quarter of an hour, she has lost something which he could help her to look for."
Bras Rouge winked his eye and made a sign to the Schoolmaster, and then said to the child:
"Tortillard, go with madame."
The hideous brat hopped forward and took hold of the "one-eyed's" hand.
"Love of a bright boy, come along! There is a child!" said Finette. "And how like his father! He is not like Pegriotte, who always pretended to have a pain in her side when she came near me—a little baggage!"
"Come, come away!—be off, Finette! Keep your weather-eye open, and bright lookout. I await you here."
"I won't be long. Go first, Tortillard."
The one-eyed hag and the little cripple went up the slippery steps.
"Finette, take the umbrella," the brigand called out.
"'Ah, Here is the 'Darling One'!'" Original Etching by Adrian Marcel
"It would be in the way, my man," said the old woman, who quickly disappeared with Tortillard in the midst of the fog, which thickened with the twilight, and the hollow murmur of the wind as it moaned through the thick and leafless branches of the tall elms in the Champs Elysées.
"Let us go in," said Rodolph.
It was requisite to stoop in passing in at the door of the cabaret, which was divided into two apartments. In one was a bar and a broken-down billiard-table;