at he is up to!" cried Fil-de-Soie; "he has some plan in his
head. He wants to see the boy" (sa tante) "who is to be executed before
long."

The persons known in prison as tantes or aunts may be best described in
the ingenious words of the governor of one of the great prisons to the
late Lord Durham, who, during his stay in Paris, visited every prison.
So curious was he to see every detail of French justice, that he even
persuaded Sanson, at that time the executioner, to erect the scaffold
and decapitate a living calf, that he might thoroughly understand the
working of the machine made famous by the Revolution. The governor
having shown him everything--the yards, the workshops, and the
underground cells--pointed to a part of the building, and said, "I need
not take your Lordship there; it is the quartier des tantes."--"Oh,"
said Lord Durham, "what are they!"--"The third sex, my Lord."

"And they are going to scrag Theodore!" said la Pouraille, "such a
pretty boy! And such a light hand! such cheek! What a loss to society!"

"Yes, Theodore Calvi is yamming his last meal," said le Biffon. "His
trips will pipe their eyes, for the little beggar was a great pet."

"So you're here, old chap?" said la Pouraille to Jacques Collin. And,
arm-in-arm with his two acolytes, he barred the way to the new arrival.
"Why, Boss, have you got yourself japanned?" he went on.

"I hear you have nobbled our pile" (stolen our money), le Biffon added,
in a threatening tone.

"You have just got to stump up the tin!" said Fil-de-Soie.

The three questions were fired at him like three pistol-shots.

"Do not make game of an unhappy priest sent here by mistake," Jacques
Collin replied mechanically, recognizing his three comrades.

"That is the sound of his pipe, if it is not quite the cut of his mug,"
said la Pouraille, laying his hand on Jacques Collin's shoulder.

This action, and the sight of his three chums, startled the "Boss" out
of his dejection, and brought him back to a consciousness of reality;
for during that dreadful night he had lost himself in the infinite
spiritual world of feeling, seeking some new road.

"Do not blow the gaff on your Boss!" said Jacques Collin in a hollow
threatening tone, not unlike the low growl of a lion. "The reelers are
here; let them make fools of themselves. I am faking to help a pal who
is awfully down on his luck."

He spoke with the unction of a priest trying to convert the wretched,
and a look