He was a terrible individual this Beadle! Though his nickname suggested a peaceful occupation, he really owed it to the frightful reputation he had won as a “bell-ringer”; but the bells big Ernestine’s lover was in the habit of ringing were unfortunate pedestrians whom he would rob and half murder, beating them unmercifully with cudgels about the head and body until their very bones resounded with pain.

Sometimes he would beat them to within an inch of their last breath; occasionally he would batter the life out of them altogether, if they tried to resist his brutal attacks. The Beadle was an Apache, a vicious street-thug of the first order of brutality.

Big Ernestine finished explaining to Nibet that he must not count on the Beadle that evening, for things were so queer and uncertain, the outlook was so gloomy that no one knew what bad business they might be in for.

Mother Toulouche asked if he had got mixed up in the Dollon affair.

Cranajour cocked his ear at that, whilst pretending to put a great bundle of old clothes in order.

But Nibet replied:

“The Beadle has nothing whatever to do with that business... I know what I know about all that. He’s afraid of getting what the Cooper got, so he keeps away. He’s not far wrong either – you’ve got to be careful these days – queer times...”Ernestine and Mother Toulouche bemoaned the Cooper’s fate.

“Poor fellow! No sooner out of jail than back in again – only a fortnight’s liberty! And with a vile accusation fastened to him – smuggling and coining!” Nibet tried to relieve their minds.

“Haven’t I told you,” he growled, “that I’m going to get Maître Henri Robart to defend him! He knows how to get round juries: he’ll get the Cooper off with an easy sentence.”

Nibet looked at his watch:

“It will soon be half-past two! Got to go down! The boatman will be there before long, at the mouth of the sewer!”Mother Toulouche, who was always in a flurry when smuggled goods were to be unloaded in her cellars, tried to dissuade Nibet.

“You’ll never be able to manage it by yourself!” Nibet glanced at Cranajour. The warder hesitated, then said:

“Since there’s no one else, couldn’t I take Cranajour with me?”

At first objections were raised; there was a low-voiced discussion, so that the simpleton might not catch what they were saying: Cranajour had never been up to escapades of this kind: so far he had been kept out of them; besides, he was such a senseless oaf, he might give things away, make a hash of it!”

Nibet smiled.

“Why, it’s just because he is such a simpleton, and because he hasn’t a mite of memory, that we can use him safely.”“That’s true!” said Mother Toulouche, somewhat reassured.

She called to Cranajour.