It was Nicholas, the son of the felon's widow. He was very pale, his features looked even more evil than they did on the previous evening, and yet he feigned a kind of overgaiety during the following conversation. (This scene takes place on the day after his quarrel with. Martial.)
"Ah, is it you, my fine fellow?" said Micou, cordially.
"Yes, Father Micou, I have come to see you on a trifle of business."
"My dog and cart are there outside with the stuff."
"What do you bring me, double tripe (sheet lead)?"
"What is it, scrapings? but no, you're too downy now, you've left off work. Perhaps it is a bit of hard (iron)?"
"No, Daddy Micou, it's some flap (sheet copper). There must be, at least, a hundred and fifty pounds weight, as much as my dog could stagger along with."
"Go and fetch the flap, and let's weigh it."
"You must lend a hand, daddy, for I've hurt my arm."
And, at the recollection of his contest with his brother Martial, the ruffian's features expressed, at once, the resentment of hatred and savage joy, as if his vengeance were already satisfied.
"What's the matter with your arm, my man?"
"You must heat an iron in the fire, and plunge it red-hot into the water, then put your arm in the water as hot as you can bear it. It is an iron-dealer's remedy, but none the worse for that."
"Go and fetch the flap, and I'll come and help you, idle-bones."
At twice the copper was brought out of the cart, drawn by an enormous dog, and conveyed into the shop.
"That cart of yours is a good idea," said the worthy Micou, as he adjusted the wooden frames of an enormous pair of scales that hung from a beam in the ceiling.
"Yes; when I've anything to bring, I put my dog and cart into the punt, and harness them as we come along. A hackney-coach might, perhaps, tell a tale, but my dog never chatters."
"And they're all pretty well at home,--eh?" inquired the receiver, weighing the copper; "mother and sister, both pretty bobbish?"
"Yes, the little uns, too. And your nephew, André, where is he?"
"Don't mention him; he was out on a spree yesterday. Barbillon and Gros-Boiteux brought him back this morning. He is out for a walk now towards the General Post-office in the Rue St. Jacques Rousseau. And your brother, Martial, is he just such a rum un as ever?"