yourself."

"How he defends my wife against me!" said the bandit, whose intellect
became obscure. "This little wretch is a devil! Where am I? Why does he
try to save her?"

"Because I like it," said Tortillard, whose face resumed its usual
appearance of sly impudence.

"Ah, is that it?" murmured the Schoolmaster, whose mind was wandering;
"well, then, I'll fire the house! we'll all burn--all! I prefer that
furnace to the other. The candle! the candle!"

"Ah! ah! ah!" exclaimed Tortillard, bursting out again into loud
laughter. "If your own candle--your 'peepers'--had not been snuffed out,
and for ever, you would have known that ours had been extinguished an
hour ago." And Tortillard sang:

"Ma chandelle est morte,
Je n'ai plus de feu."

The Schoolmaster gave a deep groan, stretched out his arms, and fell
heavily on the floor, his face on the ground, and, struck by a rush of
blood, remained motionless.

"Not to be caught, old boy," said Tortillard; "that's only a trick to
make me come to you that you may serve me out! When you have been long
enough on the floor you'll get up."

Bras Rouge's boy resolved not to go to sleep for fear of being surprised
by the Schoolmaster, so seated himself in a chair, with his eyes fixed
on the ruffian, persuaded that it was a trap laid for him, and not
believing the Schoolmaster in any danger. That he might employ himself
agreeably Tortillard drew silently and carefully from his pocket a
little red silk purse, and counted slowly, and with looks of joy and
avarice, the seventeen pieces of gold which it contained. Tortillard had
acquired his ill-gotten riches thus: It may be remembered that Madame
d'Harville was nearly surprised by her husband at the rendezvous which
she had granted to the commandant. Rodolph, when he had given the purse
to the young lady had told her to go up to the fifth story to the
Morels, under the pretence of bringing them assistance. Madame
d'Harville ran quickly up the staircase holding the purse in her hands.
When Tortillard, who was coming from the quack's, caught a glimpse of
the purse, and, pretending to stumble as he passed the marquise, pushed
against her, and, in the shock, slily stole the purse. Madame
d'Harville, bewildered, and hearing her husband's footsteps, hurried on
to the fifth story without thinking or complaining of the impudent
robbery of the little cripple. After having counted and recounted his
gold Tortillard cast his