the old vehicle gave forth such a lamentable cry that the Chouans, superstitious by nature, recoiled in terror; but Marche-a-Terre caught sight of the pallid face of the silent traveller rising from the floor of the coach.
“You’ve got another fowl in your coop,” he said in a low voice to Coupiau.
“Yes,” said the driver; “but I make it a condition of my joining you that I be allowed to take that worthy man safe and sound to Fougeres. I’m pledged to it in the name of Saint Anne of Auray.”
“Who is he?” asked Pille-Miche.
“That I can’t tell you,” replied Coupiau.
“Let him alone!” said Marche-a-Terre, shoving Pille-Miche with his elbow; “he has vowed by Saint Anne of Auray, and he must keep his word.”
“Very good,” said Pille-Miche, addressing Coupiau; “but mind you don’t go down the mountain too fast; we shall overtake you,—a good reason why; I want to see the cut of your traveller, and give him his passport.”
Just then the gallop of a horse coming rapidly up the slopes of La Pelerine was heard, and the young chief presently reappeared. The lady hastened to conceal the bag of plunder which she held in her hand.
“You can keep that money without any scruple,” said the young man, touching the arm which the lady had put behind her. “Here is a letter for you which I have just found among mine which were waiting for me at La Vivetiere; it is from your mother.” Then, looking at the Chouans who were disappearing into the woods, and at the turgotine which was now on its way to the valley of Couesnon, he added: “After all my haste I see I am too late. God grant I am deceived in my suspicions!”
“It was my poor mother’s money!” cried the lady, after opening her letter, the first lines of which drew forth her exclamation.
A smothered laugh came from the woods, and the young man himself could not help smiling as he saw the lady holding in her hand the bag containing her share in the pillage of her own money. She herself began to laugh.
“Well, well, marquis, God be praised! this time, at least, you can’t blame me,” she said, smiling.
“Levity in everything! even your remorse!” said the young man.
She colored and looked at the marquis with so genuine a contrition that he was softened. The abbe politely returned to her, with an equivocal manner, the sum he had received; then he followed the young leader who took the by-way through which he had come. Before following them the lady made a sign to Marche-a-Terre, who came to her.
“Advance towards Mortagne,” she said to him in a low voice. “I know that the Blues are constantly sending large sums of money in coin to Alencon to pay for their supplies of war. If I allow you and your comrades to keep what you captured to-day it is only on condition that you repay it later. But be careful that the Gars knows nothing of the object of the expedition; he would certainly oppose it; in case of ill-luck, I will pacify him.”
“Madame,” said the marquis, after she had rejoined him and had mounted his horse en croupe, giving her own to the abbe, “my friends in Paris write me to be very careful of what we do; the Republic, they say, is preparing to fight us with spies and treachery.”
“It wouldn’t be a bad plan,” she replied; “they have clever ideas, those fellows. I could take part in that sort of war and find foes.”
“I don’t doubt it!” cried the marquis. “Pichegru advises me to be cautious and watchful in my friendships and relations of every kind. The Republic does me the honor to think me more dangerous than all the Vendeans put together, and counts on certain of my weaknesses to lay hands upon me.”
“Surely you will not distrust me?” she said, striking his heart with the hand by which she held to him.
“Are you a traitor, madame?” he said, bending towards her his forehead, which she kissed.
“In that case,” said the abbe, referring to the news, “Fouche’s police will be more dangerous for us than their battalions of recruits and counter-Chouans.”
“Yes, true enough, father,” replied the marquis.
“Ah! ah!” cried the lady. “Fouche means to send women against you, does he? I shall be ready for them,” she added in a deeper tone of voice and after a slight pause.
At a distance of three or four gunshots from the plateau, now abandoned, a little scene was taking place which was not uncommon in those days on the high-roads. After leaving the little village of La Pelerine, Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre again stopped the turgotine at a dip in the road. Coupiau got off his seat after making a faint resistance. The silent traveller, extracted from his hiding place by the two Chouans, found himself on his knees in a furze bush.
“Who are you?” asked Marche-a-Terre in a threatening voice.
The traveller kept silence until Pille-Miche put the question again and enforced it with the butt end of his gun.
“I am Jacques Pinaud,” he replied, with a glance at Coupiau; “a poor linen-draper.”
Coupiau made a sign in the negative, not considering it an infraction of his promise to Saint Anne. The sign enlightened Pille-Miche, who took aim at the luckless traveller, while Marche-a-Terre laid before him categorically a terrible ultimatum.
“You are too fat to be poor. If you make me ask you your name again, here’s my friend Pille-Miche, who will obtain the gratitude and good-will of your heirs in a second. Who are you?” he added, after a pause.
“I am d’Orgemont, of Fougeres.”
“Ah! ah!” cried the two Chouans.
“I didn’t tell your name, Monsieur d’Orgemont,” said Coupiau. “The Holy Virgin is my witness that I did my best to protect you.”
“Inasmuch as you are Monsieur d’Orgemont, of Fougeres,” said Marche-a-Terre, with an air of ironical respect, “we shall let you go in peace. Only, as you are neither a good Chouan nor a true Blue (thought it was you who bought the property of the Abbey de Juvigny), you will pay us three hundred crowns of six francs each for your ransom. Neutrality is worth that, at least.”
“Three hundred crowns of six francs each!” chorussed the luckless banker, Pille-Miche, and Coupiau, in three different tones.
“Alas, my good friend,” continued d’Orgemont, “I’m a ruined man. The last forced loan of that devilish Republic for a hundred millions sucked me dry, taxed as I was already.”
“How much did your Republic get out of you?”
“A thousand crowns, my dear man,” replied the banker, with a piteous air, hoping for a reduction.
“If your Republic gets forced loans out of you for such big sums as that you must see that you would do better with us; our government would cost you less. Three hundred crowns, do you call that dear for your skin?”
“Where am I to get them?”
“Out of your strong-box,” said Pille-Miche; “and mind that the money is forthcoming, or we’ll singe you still.”
“How
