"Do you want the gendarmes to scent tobacco?" said the Lizard.

"Are the 'Flics' out already?" asked Tric-Trac, astonished.

"They're in Paradise, setting the whole Department by the ears. But
they can't look sideways at me; I'm going to be exempt."

"It strikes me," observed Tric-Trac, "that you take great
precautions for your own skin."

"I do," said the Lizard.

"What about me?"

The poacher looked around at the young ruffian. Those muscles in the
human face which draw back the upper lip are not the muscles used for
laughter. Animals employ them when they snarl. And now the Lizard
laughed that way; his upper lip shrank from the edge of his yellow
teeth, and he regarded Tric-Trac with oblique and burning eyes.

"What about me?" repeated Tric-Trac, in an offended tone. "Am I to
live in fear of the Flics?"

The Lizard laughed again, and Tric-Trac, disgusted, stood up, settled
his cap over his wide ears, humming a song as he loosened his
trousers-belt:

"Si vous t'nez a vot' squelette
Ne fait' pas comme Bibi!
Claquer plutot dans vot' lit
Que de claquer a la Roquette!"--

"Who are you gaping at?" he added, abruptly. "Bon; c'est ma geule.
Et apres? Drop that box!"

"Come," replied the Lizard, coldly, placing the box on the moss,
"you'd better not quarrel with me."

"Oh, that's a threat, is it?" sneered Tric-Trac. He walked over to
the steel box, lifted it, placed it in the iron-edged case, and sat
down on the case.

"I want you to comprehend," he added, "that you have pushed your
nose into an affair that does not concern you. The next time you come
here to sell your snared pheasants, come like a man, nom de Dieu! and
not like a cat of the Glaciere!--or I'll find a way to stop your
curiosity."

The dull-red color surged into the poacher's face and heavy neck; for
a moment he stood as though stunned. Then he dragged out his knife.

Tric-Trac sat looking at him insolently, one hand thrust into the
bosom of his greasy coat.

"I've got a toy under my cravate that says 'Papa!' six times--pop!
pop! pop! pop! pop! pop! Papa!" he continued, calmly; "so there's no
use in your turning red and swelling the veins in your neck. Go to the
devil! Do you think I can't live without you? Go to the devil with
your traps and partridges and fish-hooks--and that fagot-knife in your
fist--and if you try to throw it at me you'll make a sad mistake!"