"Dame! I will give it up then," resolved Picpon, half aloud, valorously.
Now Picpon had come forth on evil thoughts intent.
His officer--a careless and extravagant man, the richest man in
the regiment--had given him a rather small velvet bag, sealed, with
directions to take it to a certain notorious beauty of Algiers, whose
handsome Moresco eyes smiled--or, at least, he believed so--exclusively
for the time on the sender. Picpon was very quick, intelligent, and much
liked by his superiors, so that he was often employed on errands; and
the tricks he played in the execution thereof were so adroitly done
that they were never detected. Picpon had chuckled to himself over this
mission. It was but the work of an instant for the lithe, nimble fingers
of the ex-gamin to undo the bag without touching the seal; to see that
it contained a hundred Napoleons with a note; to slip the gold into the
folds of his ceinturon; to fill up the sack with date-stones; to make
it assume its original form so that none could have imagined it had been
touched, and to proceed with it thus to the Moorish lionne's dwelling.
The negro who always opened her door would take it in; Picpon would hint
to him to be careful, as it contained some rare and rich sweetmeats,
negro nature, he well knew, would impel him to search for the bonbons;
and the bag, under his clumsy treatment, would bear plain marks of
having been tampered with, and, as the African had a most thievish
reputation, he would never be believed if he swore himself guiltless.
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