"I haf a wife," he said, slowly, in a sepulchral tone.
"Well, what of it? Is that a crime in France? I could almost believe
it!"
"I could not liff mit' her no longer," continued Pelletan. "She wass a
teufel! I leafe her!"
"Oh, that's it--so you ran away?"
"Yess, monsieur, I ran avay--avay from Paris--avay from France--I
t'ought efen of going to Amerique."
"Was she so bad as all that?" asked Rushford, sympathetically.
For answer, Pelletan went to the statue of Saint Genevieve, lifted it,
and took from beneath it a photograph.
"T'is iss she, monsieur," he said, and handed the photograph to
Rushford.
The latter took one look at it and passed it back.
"Not guilty!" he said. "You have my profound sympathy, Pelletan. How did
you happen to get caught? You must have been exceedingly young!"
"I wass, monsieur," admitted Pelletan, with a sigh. "I wass just from
t'e province--my head wass full of treams. Unt she wass petter-looking,
t'en, monsieur; she wass almost slim. She wass a widow--unt besides she
had a leetle patisserie which her man had left her."
"I see--avarice was your undoing. And you caught a tartar!"
"A teufel!" repeated Pelletan. "A fiend! Oh, what an end to t'e tream! I
worked--oh, how hard I worked--sweating at t'e ovens, efery hour of t'e
twenty-four--for t'e ovens must not pe allowed to cool.
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