"My old master, the locksmith, is a worthy man, and I will tell him as much as he need know, and, perhaps, he will lend me something for the sake of the children; with that I will go and apprentice them a long way off. We will leave in two days, and you will hear no more of us." "No, no! I prefer their remaining with me. I shall then be perfectly sure of them." "Then I will take up my quarters in the hovel on the island until something turns up. I have a way and a will of my own, and you know it." "Yes, I know it. Oh, how I wish you were a thousand miles away! Why didn't you remain in your woods?" "I offer to rid you of myself and the children." "What! Would you leave La Louve here, whom you love so much?" asked the widow, suddenly. "That's my affair. I know what I shall do. I have my plans." "If I let you take away Amandine and Francois, will you never again set foot in Paris?" "Before three days have passed, we shall have departed, and be as dead to you." "I prefer that to having you here, and always distrusting you and them. So, since I must give way, take them, and be off as quickly as possible, and never let me see you more!" "Agreed!" "Agreed! Give me the key of the cellar, that I may let Nicholas out!" "No; let him sleep his liquor off, and I'll give you the key to-morrow morning." "And Calabash?" "Ah, that's another affair! Let her out when I have gone. I can't bear the sight of her." "Go, and may hell confound you!" "That's your farewell, mother?" "Yes." "Fortunately your last!" said Martial. "My last!" responded the widow. Her son lighted a candle, then opened the kitchen door, whistled to his dog, who ran in, quite delighted at being admitted, and followed his master to the upper story of the house. "Go,--your business is settled!" muttered the widow, shaking her clenched hand at her son, as he went up the stairs; "but it is your own act." Then, by Calabash's assistance, who brought her a bundle of false keys, the widow unlocked the cellar door where Nicholas was, and set him at liberty. CHAPTER VI. FRANCOIS AND AMANDINE. Francois and Amandine slept in a room immediately over the kitchen, and at the end of a passage which communicated with several other apartments that were used as "company rooms" for the guests who frequented the cabaret. After having eaten their frugal supper, instead of putting out their lantern, as the widow had ordered them, the two children watched, leaving their door ajar, for their brother Martial's passing on his way to his own chamber. Placed on a crippled stool, the lantern shed its dull beams through the transparent horn. Walls of plaster, with here and there brown deal boards, a flock-bed for Francois, a little old child's bed, much too short, for Amandine, a pile of broken chairs and dismembered benches, mementoes of the turbulent visitors to the cabaret of the Isle du Ravageur,--such was the interior of this dog-hole.