Poterne began to roar so that Chérubin might not hear what Chichette said. He brandished his dagger with one hand, while with the other he stuffed the flax back into his mouth, whence it had almost escaped. But Chérubin had lost his head; the presence of that man, whose wife he believed that he had abducted, his outcries, his oaths, and the dagger he was brandishing, terrified the young man beyond words. Poterne, seeing that he was in a condition to submit to whatever terms he might impose, took the notes from his pocket, placed them on the table, found a pen and inkstand and presented them to Chérubin. “If you wish to save this guilty woman, god dem!” he said, “there is only one way to appease my wrath.” “Oh! speak, monsieur, command--All you choose.” “Fill out these notes of hand--here are four of them--make them twenty-five thousand francs each. _Per Diou!_ that is too _poco!_” “Notes of hand--for a hundred thousand francs?” “Yes, signor.” “Oh! you want me to----” “If you hesitate, sapermann! I will kill this guilty wife of mine, I will kill you, I will kill everyone in the house--fichtre!--and then myself.” “Oh! no, no, I do not hesitate, monsieur. I will make them for whatever sums you say.” “Good! then you will make them for thirty thousand francs each.--Come! write and sign--_per Dio!_” Chérubin seated himself at the table; he took the pen in his trembling hand and cast a sorrowful glance at his conquest, who had thrown herself on the couch, where he believed that she had swooned, whereas she was simply trying to go to sleep again. But Poterne returned to his side, ground his teeth and swore blood-curdling oaths. The young lover at once began to write; he had already filled out the body of one note, and was about to sign it, when they heard a loud noise below; then steps rapidly ascended the stairs, the door was thrown open, and Monfréville appeared, followed by old Jasmin, who uttered a cry of joy at sight of his master. “Ah! here he is!” he cried; “God be praised! they have not destroyed him!” Chérubin felt as if he were born again when he saw his friend; he threw himself into his arms, while Monfréville, observing his confusion and bewilderment and pallor, asked him: “Great God! my dear fellow, what are you doing here, in this house--this den of thieves, to which a little rascal refused to admit me?” “Ah! my friend, the fact is that--that I have been very guilty!” Chérubin replied in a voice broken by sobs. “I abducted madame--this gentleman’s wife; that is to say, it wasn’t I who did it--Daréna abducted her for me. Monsieur is a Polish count, and he insisted that I should give him my notes for a hundred and twenty thousand francs, or else he would kill his wife! Ah! how glad I am to see you!” While Chérubin was speaking, Poterne, who was very ill at ease, tried to sidle toward the door; but Jasmin had stationed himself in front of it, after taking pains to lock it.