Part 21 (1/2)
”I say, Pille-Miche!” cried Marche-a-Terre.
”What!”
”I'll buy all your booty.”
”Are you joking?” asked the other, catching his prisoner by the petticoat, as a butcher catches a calf that is trying to escape him.
”Let me see her, and I'll set a price.”
The unfortunate creature was made to leave the coach and stand between the two Chouans, who each held a hand and looked at her as the Elders must have looked at Susannah.
”Will you take thirty francs in good coin?” said Marche-a-Terre, with a groan.
”Really?”
”Done?” said Marche-a-Terre, holding out his hand.
”Yes, done; I can get plenty of Breton girls for that, and choice morsels, too. But the coach; whose is that?” asked Pille-Miche, beginning to reflect upon his bargain.
”Mine!” cried Marche-a-Terre, in a terrible tone of voice, which showed the sort of superiority his ferocious character gave him over his companions.
”But suppose there's money in the coach?”
”Didn't you say, 'Done'?”
”Yes, I said, 'Done.'”
”Very good; then go and fetch the postilion who is gagged in the stable over there.”
”But if there's money in the-”
”Is there any?” asked Marche-a-Terre, roughly, shaking Marie by the arm.
”Yes, about a hundred crowns.”
The two Chouans looked at each other.
”Well, well, friend,” said Pille-Miche, ”we won't quarrel for a female Blue; let's pitch her into the lake with a stone around her neck, and divide the money.”
”I'll give you that money as my share in d'Orgemont's ransom,” said Marche-a-Terre, smothering a groan, caused by such sacrifice.
Pille-Miche uttered a sort of hoa.r.s.e cry as he started to find the postilion, and his glee brought death to Merle, whom he met on his way.
Hearing the shot, Marche-a-Terre rushed in the direction where he had left Francine, and found her praying on her knees, with clasped hands, beside the poor captain, whose murder had deeply horrified her.
”Run to your mistress,” said the Chouan; ”she is saved.”
He ran himself to fetch the postilion, returning with all speed, and, as he repa.s.sed Merle's body, he noticed the Gars' glove, which was still convulsively clasped in the dead hand.
”Oho!” he cried. ”Pille-Miche has blundered horribly-he won't live to spend his crowns.”