Александр Дюма
The Last Vendée
Maître Jacques had never seriously laid down his arms during the whole fifteen years that Napoleon's power lasted. With two or three men-oftener alone and isolated-he had managed to make head against whole brigades detailed to capture him. His courage and his luck were something supernatural, and gave rise to an idea among the superstitious population of the Bocage that his life was invulnerable, and that the balls of the Blues were harmless against him. When, therefore, after the revolution of July, in fact, during the very first days of August, 1830, Maître Jacques announced that he should take the field, all the refractories of the neighborhood flocked to his standard, and it was not long before he had under his orders a considerable body of men, with whom he had already begun the second series of his guerilla exploits.
After asking Aubin Courte-Joie to excuse him for a few moments, Maître Jacques, who, for the purposes of conversation had put first his head and then his bust above the trapdoor, now stooped down into the opening, and gave a curiously modulated whistle. At this signal a hum arose from the bowels of the earth, much like that of a hive of bees. Then, close by, between two bushes, a wide sort of lid or skylight, covered only with turf and moss and dried leaves, exactly like the ground beside it, rose vertically, supported on four stakes at the four corners. As it rose it revealed the opening to a sort of grain-pit, very broad and very deep; and from this pit about twenty men now issued, one after another, in succession.
The dress of these men had nothing of the elegant picturesqueness which characterizes brigands as we see them issue from pasteboard caverns at the Opéra-Comique, – far, very far from that. Some wore uniforms which closely resembled the rags on Trigaud-Vermin's person; others-and these were the most elegant-wore cloth jackets. But the jackets of the greater number were of cotton.
The same diversity existed in their weapons. Two or three regulation muskets, half a dozen sporting guns, and as many pistols formed the entire equipment of firearms. The display of side-arms was far from being as respectable; it consisted solely of Maître Jacques's sabre, two pikes dating back to the old war, and eight or ten scythes, carefully sharpened by their owners.
When all the braves had issued from the pit into the clearing. Maître Jacques walked up to the trunk of a felled tree, on which he sat down. Trigaud placed Aubin Courte-Joie beside him, after which the giant retired a few steps, though still within reach of his partner's signals.
"Yes, my Courte-Joie," said Maître Jacques, "the wolves are after us; but it gives me pleasure to have you take the trouble to come and warn me." Then, suddenly, "Ah, ça!" he cried; "how happens it that you can come? I thought you were caught when they took Jean Oullier? Jean Oullier got away, I know, as they crossed the ford, – there's nothing surprising in his escape; but you, my poor footless one, – how, in Heaven's name, did you get off?"
"You forget Trigaud's feet," replied Aubin Courte-Joie, laughing. "I pricked the gendarme who held me, and it seems it hurt him, for he let go of me, and my friend Trigaud did the rest. But who told you that, Maître Jacques?"
"Maître Jacques shrugged his shoulders with an indifferent air. Then, without replying to the question, which he may have thought an idle one, -
"Ah, ça!" he said; "I hope you haven't come to tell me that the day is changed?"
"No; it is still for the 24th."
"That's good," replied Maître Jacques; "for the fact is I've lost all patience with their delays and their shufflings. Good Lord! where's the need of such a fuss to pick up one's gun, say good-bye to one's wife, and be off?"
"Patience! patience! you won't have long to wait now, Maître Jacques."
"Four days!" said the other, in a tone of disgust.
"That's not long."
"I think it is too long by three. I didn't have Jean Oullier's chance to do for some of them at the springs of Baugé."
"Yes; the gars told me about that."
"Unhappily," continued Maître Jacques, "they have taken a cruel revenge for it."
"How so?"
"Haven't you heard?"
"No; I have just come straight from Montaigu."
"Ah, true; then you can't know."
"What happened?"
"They caught and killed in Pascal Picaut's house a fine young man I respected, – I, who don't think any too much of his class usually."
"What was his name?"
"Comte de Bonneville."
"Did they really? When was it?"
"Why this very day, damn it! about two in the afternoon."
"How, in the devil's name, did you hear that, down in your pit, Maître Jacques?"
"Don't I hear everything that is of use to me?"
"Then I don't know that there's any use in my telling you what brings me here."
"Why not?"
"Because you probably know it."
"That may be."
"I should like to be sure whether you do or not."
"Pooh!"
"Faith! yes, I should. It would spare me a disagreeable errand, which I only accepted against my will."
"Ah! then you have come from those gentlemen?"
Maître Jacques pronounced the words we have underscored in a tone that varied from contempt to menace.
"Yes, I do, in the first instance," replied Aubin Courte-Joie; "but I met Jean Oullier on my way, and he, too, gave me a message for you."
"Jean Oullier! Ah! anything that comes from him is welcome. He is a gars I love, – Jean Oullier! He has done a thing in his life which made me his friend forever."
"What was that?"
"That's his secret, not mine. But come; tell me, in the first place, what those lordly gentlemen want of me?"
"It is your division leader who has sent me."
"The Marquis de Souday?"
"Yes."
"Well, what does he want?"
"He complains that you attract, by your constant sorties, the attention of the government soldiers, and that you irritate the population of the towns by your exactions, and also that you paralyze the general movement by making it more difficult."
"Pooh! why haven't they made their movement sooner? We have waited long enough, God knows! For my part, I've been waiting since July 30."
"And then-"
"What! is there any more of it?"
"Yes; he orders you-"
"Orders me!"
"Wait a moment; you can obey or not obey, but he orders you-"
"Listen to me, Courte-Joie; whatever he orders I here make a vow to disobey it. Now, go on; I'm listening."
"Well, he orders you to stay quietly in your quarters till the 24th, and, above all, to stop no diligence nor any traveller on the high-road, as you have been doing lately."
"Well, I swear, for my part," replied Maître Jacques, "to capture the first person that goes to-night from Légé to Saint-Étienne or from Saint-Étienne to Légé. As for you, stay here, gars Courte-Joie, and then you can tell him what you have seen."
"Oh, no! no!" exclaimed Aubin.
"Why not?"
"Don't do that, Maître Jacques."
"Yes, by God! I will, though."
"Jacques! Jacques!" insisted the tavern-keeper; "can't you see it will compromise our sacred cause?"
"Possibly; but it will prove to him-that old fox I never chose for my superior-that I and my men are outside his division, and that here, at least, his orders shall never be obeyed. So much for the orders of the Marquis de Souday; now go on to Jean Oullier's message."
"I met him as I reached the heights near the bridge at Servières. He asked where I was going, and when I told him, 'Parbleu!' said he; 'that's the very thing! Ask Maître Jacques if he can move out and let us have his earth-hole for some one we want to hide there.'"
"Ah, ha! Did he say who the person was, my Courte-Joie?"
"No."
"Never mind! Whoever it is, if he comes in the name of Jean Oullier, he'll be welcome; for I know Jean Oullier wouldn't turn me out if it were not for some good reason. He is not one of the crowd of lazy lords who make all the noise and leave us to do the work."
"Some are good, and some are bad," said Aubin, philosophically.
"When is the person he wants to hide coming?" asked Maître Jacques.
"To-night."
"How shall I know him?"
"Jean Oullier will bring him."
"Good. Is that all he wants?"
"No; he wishes you to capture all doubtful persons in the forest to-night, and have the whole neighborhood watched, more especially the path toward Grand-Lieu."
"There now! just see that! The division commander orders me to arrest no one, and Jean Oullier wants me to clear the forest of curs and red-breeches, – reason the more why I should keep the oath I made just now. How will Jean Oullier know that I shall be expecting him?"
"If he can come-that is, if there are no troops in the way at Touvois-I am to let him know."
"Yes; but how?"
"By a branch of holly with fifteen leaves upon it in the middle of the road half-way along to Machecoul, at the crossways of Benaste, the tip end turned toward Touvois."
"Did he give you the password? Jean Oullier would surely not forget that."
"Yes; 'Vanquished' and 'Vendée.'"
"Very good," said Maître Jacques, rising and going to the middle of the open. There he called four of his men, gave them some directions in a low voice, and all four, without replying, went off in four different directions. At the end of about four minutes, during which time Maître Jacques had ordered up a jug of what seemed to be brandy, and had offered some to his companion, four individuals appeared from the four directions in which the other men had been sent. These were the sentinels just relieved by their comrades.
"Any news?" asked Maître Jacques.
"No," replied three of the men.
"Good. You, – what do you say?" he inquired of the fourth. "You had the best post."
"The diligence to Nantes was escorted by four gendarmes."
"Ah, ha! your nose is good; you smell specie. Bless me! and when I think there are those who order us not to get it! However, friends, patience! we are not to be put down."
"Well, what do you think?" interrupted Courte-Joie.
"I think there's not a pair of red breeches anywhere about. Tell Jean Oullier he can bring his people."
"Good!" said Courte-Joie, who during this examination of the sentries was preparing a branch of holly in the manner agreed upon with Jean Oullier. "Very good; I'll send Trigaud." Turning toward the giant, "Here, Vermin!" he said.
Maître Jacques stopped him.
"Ah, ça!" he exclaimed; "are you crazy, to part with your legs in that way? Suppose you should need him? Nonsense! there are forty men here who would like no better than to stretch their legs. Wait, you shall see-Hi! Joseph Picaut!"
At the call, our old acquaintance, who was sleeping on the grass in a sleep he seemed much to need, sat up and listened.
"Joseph Picaut!" repeated Maître Jacques, impatiently.
That decided the man. He rose, grumbling, and went up to Maître Jacques.
"Here is a branch of holly," said the leader of the belligerents; "don't pluck off a single leaf. Carry it immediately to the crossway of La Benaste on the road to Machecoul, and lay it down in front of the crucifix, with its tip-end pointing toward Touvois."
Maître Jacques crossed himself as he said the word "crucifix."
"But-" began Picaut, objecting.
"But? – what do you mean?"
"I mean that, after four hours of such a run as I have just made, my legs are breaking under me."
"Joseph Picaut," replied Maître Jacques, whose voice grew strident and metallic, like the blare of a trumpet, "you left your parish and enrolled yourself in my band. You came here; I did not ask you. Now, recollect one thing: at the first objection I strike; at the second I kill."
As he spoke Maître Jacques pulled a pistol from his jacket, grasped it by the barrel, and struck a vigorous blow with the butt-end on Picaut's head. The shock was so violent that the peasant, quite bewildered, came down on one knee. Probably, without the protection of his hat, which was made of thick felt, his skull would have been fractured.
"And now, go!" said Maître Jacques, calmly looking to see if the blow had shaken the powder from the pan.
Without a word Joseph Picaut picked himself up, shook his head, and went off. Courte-Joie watched him till he was out of sight; then he looked at Maître Jacques.
"Do you allow such fellows as that in your band?" he said.
"Yes; don't speak of it!"
"Have you had him long?"
"No, only a few hours."
"Bad recruit for you."
"I don't say that exactly. He is a brave gars, like his father, whom I knew well; only, he has to be taught to obey like my fellows, and to get used to the ways of the burrow. He'll improve; he'll improve."
"Oh, I don't doubt it! You have a wonderful way of educating them."
"God bless me! I've been at it a good while! But," continued Maître Jacques, "it is time for my round of inspection, and I shall have to leave you, my poor Courte-Joie. It is understood, isn't it, that Jean Oullier's friends are welcome to the burrow. As for the division commander, he shall have his answer to-night. You are sure that is all gars Oullier told you to say?"
"Yes."
"Rummage your memory."
"I am sure that is all."
"Very well. If the burrow suits him, he shall have it, – he and his friends. I don't bother myself about my gars; those scamps, they are like mice, – they have more than one hole. Good-bye for the present, gars Aubin; and while you are waiting, take a bite. I see them making ready for a stew down there."
Maître Jacques descended into what he called his burrow. Then he came out a moment later, armed with a carbine, the priming of which he examined with the utmost care; after which he disappeared among the trees.
The open was now very animated, and presented a most picturesque effect. A large fire had been lighted in the burrow, and the glare coming through the trap illumined the trees and bushes with fantastic gleams. The supper of the men, who were scattered about the open, was cooking at it, while the men waited. Some, on their knees, were telling their beads; others, sitting down, sang in low tones those national songs whose plaintive, long-drawn melodies were so in keeping with the character of the landscape. Two Bretons, lying on their stomachs at the mouth of the burrow, were betting, by means of two bones of different shades of color, for the possession of sundry copper coins, while another gars (who, from his pallid face and shrivelled skin, – shrivelled with fever, – was obviously a dweller among the marshes) employed himself, without much success, in cleaning a thick coat of rust from the barrel and match-lock of an old carbine.
Aubin Courte-Joie, accustomed to such scenes, paid no attention to the one before him. Trigaud had made him a sort of couch with leaves, and he was now seated on this improvised mattress, smoking his pipe as tranquilly as if in his tavern at Montaigu.
Suddenly he fancied he heard in the far distance the well-known cry of alarm, – the cry of the screech-owl, – but modulated in a certain long-drawn-out way which indicated danger. Courte-Joie whistled softly to warn the men about him to keep silence and listen; but almost at the same instant a shot echoed from a place about a thousand steps distant.
In the twinkling of an eye the water-pails, standing ready for this very use, had put out the fire; the roof was lowered, the trap closed, and Maître Jacques's belligerents, among them Courte-Joie, whom his physical partner remounted on his shoulders, were scattering in every direction among the trees, where they awaited the next signal from their leader.
XLV.
THE DANGER OF MEETING BAD COMPANY IN THE WOODS
It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening when Petit-Pierre, accompanied by Baron Michel, now her guide in place of poor Bonneville, left the cottage where she had escaped such dangers.
It was not, as we can readily believe, without a deep and painful emotion that Petit-Pierre crossed that threshold and left the cold, inanimate body of the chivalrous young man, whom she had known for a few days only, but already loved as an old and trusted friend. That valiant heart of hers had a momentary sense of weakness at the thought of meeting alone the perils that for four or five days poor Bonneville had shared with her. The royal cause had only lost one soldier, yet Petit-Pierre felt as though an army was gone.
It was the first grain of the bloody seed about to be sown once more in the soil of La Vendée; and Petit-Pierre asked herself in anguish if, indeed, nothing would come of it but regret and mourning.
Petit-Pierre did not insult Marianne Picaut by charging her to take good care of the body of poor Bonneville. Strange as the ideas of that woman may have seemed to her, she understood the nobility of her feelings, and recognized all that was truly good and profoundly religious beneath her rough exterior. When Michel brought his horse to the door and reminded Petit-Pierre that every moment was precious, the latter turned to the widow of Pascal Picaut, and holding out her hand, said:
"How can I thank you for all you have done for me?"
"I have done nothing for you," replied Marianne; "I have paid a debt, – fulfilled an oath, that is all."
"Then," said Petit-Pierre, with tears in her eyes, "you will not even accept my gratitude?"
"If you are determined to owe me something," said the widow, "do this: when you pray for those who are dead add to your prayers a few words for those who have died because of you."
"Then you think I have some credit with God?" said Petit-Pierre, unable to keep from smiling through her tears.
"Yes; because I know that you are destined to suffer."
"At least, you will accept this," said Petit-Pierre, unfastening from her throat a little medal hanging to a slender black silk cord. "It is only silver, but the Holy Father blessed it in my presence, and said when he gave it to me that God would grant the prayers uttered over it, if they were just and pious."
Marianne took the medal. Then she said: -
"Thank you. On this medal I will pray to God that our land be saved from civil war, and that He will ever preserve its grandeur and its liberty."
"Right!" said Petit-Pierre; "the last half of your prayer will be echoed in mine."
Aided by Michel, she mounted the horse which the young man led by the bridle, and with a last signal of farewell to the widow, they both disappeared behind the hedge.
For some minutes Petit-Pierre, whose head was bowed on her breast, swayed to the motions of the horse and seemed to be buried in deep and painful reflections. At last, however, she made an effort over herself, and shaking off the grief that overcame her, she turned to Michel, who was walking beside her.
"Monsieur," she said, "I already know two things which entitle you to my confidence: first, that we owed the warning that troops were surrounding the château de Souday to you; second, that you have come to me to-day in the name of the marquis and his charming daughters. But there is still a third thing, about which I should like to know, and that is, who you are. My friends are rare under present circumstances, and I like to know their names that I may promise not to forget them."
"I am called Baron Michel de la Logerie," replied the young man.
"De la Logerie! Surely this is not the first time I have heard that name?"
"Very likely not, Madame," said the young man; "for our poor Bonneville told me he was taking your Highness to my mother-"
"Stop, stop! what are you saying? Your Highness! There is no highness here; I see only a poor little peasant-lad named Petit-Pierre."
"Ah, true; but Madame will excuse-"
"What! again?"
"Pardon me. Our poor Bonneville was taking you to my mother when I had the honor of meeting and conducting you to Souday."
"So that I am under a triple obligation to you. That does not disquiet me; for, great as your services have been, I hope the time will come when I can discharge my debt."
Michel stammered a few words, which did not reach the ears of his companion. But the latter's words seemed to have made an impression on him; for from that moment, while obeying the injunction to refrain from a certain deference, he redoubled his care and attention to the personage he was guiding.
"But it seems to me," said Petit-Pierre, after a moment's thought, "from what Monsieur de Bonneville told me, that royalist opinions are not altogether those of your family."
"No, they are not, Ma-mon-"
"Call me Petit-Pierre, or do not call me anything; that is the only way to avoid embarrassment. So it is to a conversion that I owe the honor of having you for my knight?"
"An easy conversion! At my age opinions are not convictions; they are only sentiments."
"You are indeed very young," said Petit-Pierre, looking at her guide.
"I am nearly twenty-one."
Petit-Pierre gave a sigh.
"That is the fine age," she said, "for love or war."
The young man heaved a deep sigh, and Petit-Pierre, who heard it, smiled imperceptibly.
"Ah!" she said; "there's a sigh which tells me many things about the conversion we were speaking of just now. I will wager that a pretty pair of eyes knows something about it, and that if the soldiers of Louis-Philippe were to search you at this moment they would find a scarf that is dearer to you for the hands that embroidered it than for the principles of which its color is the emblem."
"I assure you, Madame," stammered Michel, "that is not the cause of my determination."
"Come, come, don't defend yourself; all that is true chivalry, Monsieur Michel. We must never forget, whether we descend from them or whether we seek to emulate them, that the knights of old placed women next to God and on the level of kings, combining all three in one device. Do not be ashamed of loving! Why, that is your greatest claim to my sympathy! Ventre-saint-gris! as Henri IV. would have said; with an army of twenty thousand lovers I could conquer not only all France, but the world! Come, tell me the name of your lady, Monsieur le Baron de la Logerie."
"Oh!" exclaimed Michel, deeply shocked.
"Ah! I see you are discreet, young man. I congratulate you; it is a quality all the more precious because in these days it is so rare. But never mind; to a travelling-companion we tell all, charging him to keep our secret inviolably. Come, shall I help you? I will wager that we are now going toward the lady of our thoughts."
"You are right there."
"And I will further wager that she is neither more nor less than one of those charming amazons at Souday."
"Good heavens! who could have told you?"
"Well, I congratulate you again, my young friend. Wolves as I am told some persons call them, I know they have brave and noble hearts, capable of bestowing happiness on the husbands they select. Are you rich, Monsieur de la Logerie?"
"Alas, yes!" replied Michel.
"So much the better, and not alas at all! You can enrich your wife, and that seems to me a great happiness. In all cases, in all loves, there are certain little difficulties to overcome, and if Petit-Pierre can help you at any time you have only to call upon him; he will be most happy to recognize in that way the services you have been good enough to render him. But, if I'm not mistaken, here comes some one toward us. Listen; don't you hear a tread?"
The steps of a man now became distinctly audible. They were still at some distance, but were coming nearer.
"I think the man is alone," said Petit-Pierre.
"Yes; but we must not be the less on our guard," replied the baron. "I shall ask your permission to mount that horse in front of you."
"Willingly; but are you already tired?"
"No, not at all. Only, I am well known in the neighborhood, and if I were seen on foot leading a horse on which a peasant was riding, as Haman led Mordecai, it might give rise to a good deal of speculation."
"Bravo! what you say is very true. I begin to think we shall make something of you in the end."
Petit-Pierre jumped to the ground. Michel mounted; and Petit-Pierre placed herself humbly behind him. They were hardly settled in their seats before they came within thirty yards of an individual who was walking in their direction, and whose steps now ceased abruptly.
"Oh! oh!" said Petit-Pierre; "it seems that if we are afraid of him, he is afraid of us."
"Who's there?" called Michel, making his voice gruff.
"Ah! is it you, Monsieur le baron?" replied the man, advancing. "The devil take me if I expected to meet you here at this hour!"
"You told the truth when you said that you were well known," whispered Petit-Pierre, laughing.
"Yes, unfortunately," said Michel, in a tone which warned Petit-Pierre they were in presence of a real danger.
"Who is this man?" asked Petit-Pierre.
"Courtin, my farmer, – the one we suspect of denouncing your presence at Marianne Picaut's." Then he added, in a vehement and imperative tone, which made his companion aware of the urgency of the situation, "Hide behind me as much as possible."
Petit-Pierre immediately obeyed.
"Oh! it is you Courtin, is it?" said Michel.
"Yes, it is I," replied the farmer.
"Where do you come from?" asked Michel.
"From Machecoul; I went there to buy an ox."
"Where is your ox? I don't see it."
"No, I couldn't make a trade. These damned politics hinder business, and there's nothing now in the market," said Courtin, who was carefully examining, as well as he could in the darkness, the horse on which the young baron was mounted.
Then, as Michel dropped the conversation, he continued: -
"But how is it you are turning your back to La Logerie at this time of night?"
"That's not surprising; I am going to Souday."
"Might I observe that you are not altogether on the road to Souday?"
"I know that; but I was afraid the road was guarded, so I have made a circuit."
"In that case, – I mean if you are really going to Souday," said Courtin, – "I think I ought to give you a bit of advice."
"Well, give it; sincere advice is always useful."
"Don't go; the cage is empty."
"Pooh!"
"Yes, I tell you, it is empty; there's no use in your going there, Monsieur le baron, to find the bird who has sent you scouring the country."
"Who told you that, Courtin?" said Michel, man[oe]uvring his horse so as to keep his body well before Courtin, and thus mask Petit-Pierre behind him.
"Who told me? Hang it! my eyes told me; I saw them all file out of the courtyard, the devil take them! They marched right past me on the road to Grandes-Landes."
"Were the soldiers in that direction?" asked the young baron.
Petit-Pierre thought this question rash, and she pinched Michel's arm.
"Soldiers!" replied Courtin; "why should you be afraid of soldiers? But if you are, I advise you not to risk yourself at this time of night on the plain. You can't go three miles without coming plump on bayonets. Do a wiser thing than that, Monsieur Michel."
"What do you advise me to do? Come, if your way is better than mine, I'll take it."
"Go back with me to La Logerie; you will give your mother great satisfaction, for she is fretting herself to death over the way you are behaving."
"Maître Courtin," said Michel, "I'll give you a bit of advice in exchange."
"What's that, Monsieur le baron?"
"To hold your tongue."
"No, I cannot hold my tongue," replied the farmer, assuming an appearance of sorrowful emotion, – "no, it grieves me too much to see my young master exposed to such dangers, and all for-"
"Hush, Courtin!"
"For those cursed she-wolves whom the son of a peasant like myself would have none of."
"Wretch! will you be silent?" cried Michel, raising his whip.
The action, which Courtin had no doubt tried to provoke, caused Michel's horse to give a jump forward, and the mayor of La Logerie was now abreast of the two riders.
"I am sorry if I've offended you, Monsieur le baron," he said, in a whining tone. "Forgive me; but I haven't slept for two nights thinking about it."
Petit-Pierre shuddered. She heard the same false and wheedling voice that had spoken to her in the cottage of the Widow Picaut, followed, after the speaker's departure, by such painful events. She made Michel another sign, by which she meant, "Let us get rid of this man at any cost."
"Very good," said Michel; "go your way and let us go ours."
Courtin pretended to notice for the first time that Michel had some one behind him.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "Why, you are not alone! Ah! I see now, Monsieur le baron, why you were so touchy about what I said. Well, monsieur," he said, addressing Petit-Pierre, "whoever you are, I am sure you will be more reasonable than your young friend. Join me in telling him there is nothing to be gained by braving the laws and the power of the government, as he is bent on doing to please those wolves."
"Once more, Courtin," said Michel, in a tone that was actually menacing, "I tell you to go. I act as I think best, and I consider you very insolent to presume to judge of my conduct."
But Courtin, whose smooth persistency we all know by this time, seemed determined not to depart without getting a look at the features of the mysterious personage whom his young master had behind him.
"Come," he said; "to-morrow you can do as you like; but to-night, at least, come and sleep at the farmhouse, – you and the person, lady or gentleman, who is with you. I swear to you, Monsieur le baron, that there is danger in being out to-night."
"There is no danger for myself and my companion, for we are not concerned in politics. What are you doing to my saddle, Courtin?" asked the young man suddenly, noticing a movement on his farmer's part which he did not understand.
"Why, nothing, Monsieur Michel; nothing," said Courtin, with perfect good-humor. "So then, you positively won't listen to my advice and entreaties?"
"No; go your way, and let me go mine."
"Go, then!" exclaimed the farmer, in his sly, sarcastic tone; "and God be with you. Remember that poor Courtin did what he could to prevent you from rushing into danger."
So saying, Courtin finally drew aside, and Michel, setting spurs to his horse, rode past him.
"Gallop! gallop!" cried Petit-Pierre. "That is the man who caused poor Bonneville's death. Let us get on as fast as we can; that man has the evil-eye."
The young baron stuck both spurs into his horse; but the animal had hardly gone a dozen paces before the saddle turned, and both riders came heavily to the ground. Petit-Pierre was up first.
