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Durut was the convict; the Damocles' sword hung over Prudence Servien's head. But for these details, many critics would have thought Europe's attachment somewhat grotesque. And no one could have understood the startling announcement that Carlos had ready. "Yes, my girl, you can go back to Valenciennes. Here, read this."
And he held out to her yesterday's paper, pointing to this paragraph: "TOULON Yesterday, Jean Francois Durut was executed here. Early in the morning the garrison," etc. Prudence dropped the paper; her legs gave way under the weight of her body; she lived again; for, to use her own words, she never liked the taste of her food since the day when Durut had threatened her.
"You see, I have kept my word. It has taken four years to bring Durut to the scaffold by leading him into a snare. Well, finish my job here, and you will find yourself at the head of a little country business in your native town, with twenty thousand francs of your own as Paccard's wife, and I will allow him to be virtuous as a form of pension."
She tried four trades, of which the most successful was that of a "super" at a minor theatre. She was picked up by Paccard, and to him she told her woes. Paccard, Jacques Collin's disciple and right-hand man, spoke of this girl to his master, and when the master needed a slave he said to Prudence: "If you will serve me as the devil must be served, I will rid you of Durut."
His instincts as a thief were stronger than his attachment to Trompe-la-Mort. "Durut is dead," he said at length; "my shoulder is still a proof before letters. Let us be off together; divide the money, so as not to have all our eggs in one basket, and then get married." "But where can we hide?" said Prudence. "In Paris," replied Paccard.
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