this is a good
thing to know, and I'll tell the Chouette," added Bras Rouge's brat.

"If you do not leave this room, I will call in the guard," said Morel.

The children, alarmed at this scene, began to cry, and the idiotic
mother sat up in her bed.

"If any one has a right to call for the guard, it is we, you Mister
Twistabout," said Bourdin.

"And the guard would lend us a hand to carry you off to gaol if you
resist," added Malicorne. "We have not the magistrate with us, it is
true; but if you have any wish for his company, we'll find you one, just
out of bed, hot and heavy; Bourdin will go and fetch him."

"To prison! me?" exclaimed Morel, struck with dismay.

"Yes, to Clichy."

"To Clichy?" repeated the artisan, with an air of despair.

"It seems a hardish pill," said Malicorne.

"Well, then, to the debtors' jail, if you like that better," said
Bourdin.

"You--what--indeed--why--the notary--ah, _mon Dieu_!"

And the workman, pale as death, fell on his stool, unable to add another
word.

"We are bound bailiffs, come to lay hold of you; now are you fly?"

"Morel, it is the note of Louise's master! We are undone!" exclaimed
Madeleine, in a tone of agony.

"Hear the judgment," said Malicorne, taking from his dirty and crammed
pocketbook a stamped writ.

After having skimmed over, according to custom, a part of this document
in an unintelligible tone, he distinctly articulated the last words,
which were, unfortunately, but too important to the artisan:

"Judgment finally given. The Tribunal condemns Jerome Morel to
pay to Pierre Petit-Jean, merchant,[6] by every available means,
even to the arrest of body, the sum of 1,300 francs, with
interest from the day of protest, and to pay all other and extra
costs. Given and judged at Paris, 13 September, etc., etc."

[6] The cunning notary, unable to prosecute in his own name,
had made the unfortunate Morel give a blank acceptance, and
had filled up the note of hand with the name of a third party.

"And Louise! Louise!" cried Morel, almost distracted in his brain, and
apparently unheeding the long preamble which had just been read. "Where
is Louise, then, for, doubtless, she has quitted the notary, since he
sends me to prison? My child! My Louise! What has become of you?"

"Who the devil is Louise?" asked Bourdin.

"Let him alone!" replied Malicorne, brutally; "don't you see the
respectable old twaddler is not right in his nonse