"Fun!" cried Victoire.
"Yes . . . these rich men, these swells in their luxury—when one relieves them of a bank-note, how they do howl! . . . You should have seen that fat old Gournay-Martin when I relieved him of his treasures—what an agony! You almost heard the death-rattle in his throat. And then the coronet! In the derangement of their minds—and it was sheer derangement, mind you—already prepared at Charmerace, in the derangement of Guerchard, I had only to put out my hand and pluck the coronet. And the joy, the ineffable joy of enraging the police! To see Guerchard's furious eyes when I downed him. . . . And look round you!" He waved his hand round the luxurious room. "Duke of Charmerace! This trade leads to everything . . . to everything on condition that one sticks to it . . . .I tell you, Victoire, that when one cannot be a great artist or a great soldier, the only thing to be is a great thief!"
"Oh, be quiet!" cried Victoire. "Don't talk like that. You're working yourself up; you're intoxicating yourself! And all that, it is not Catholic. Come, at your age, you ought to have one idea in your head which should drive out all these others, which should make you forget all these thefts. . . . Love . . . that
