"I acknowledge myself to be Jacques Collin,
otherwise known as Trompe-la-Mort, condemned to twenty years' penal
servitude, and I have just proved that I have come fairly by my
nickname.--If I had as much as raised my hand," he went on, addressing
the other lodgers, "those three sneaking wretches yonder would have
drawn claret on Mamma Vauquer's domestic hearth. The rogues have laid
their heads together to set a trap for me."
Mme. Vauquer felt sick and faint at these words.
"Good Lord!" she cried, "this does give one a turn; and me at the
Gaite with him only last night!" she said to Sylvie.
"Summon your philosophy, mamma," Collin resumed. "Is it a misfortune
to have sat in my box at the Gaite yesterday evening? After all, are
you better than we are? The brand upon our shoulders is less shameful
than the brand set on your hearts, you flabby members of a society
rotten to the core. Not the best man among you could stand up to me."
His eyes rested upon Rastignac, to whom he spoke with a pleasant smile
that seemed strangely at variance with the savage expression in his
eyes.--"Our little bargain still holds good, dear boy; you can accept
any time you like! Do you understand?" And he sang:
"A charming girl is my Fanchette
In her simplicity.
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