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Finding that Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche had not appeared at the cottage, he relieved the apprehensions of his wife, who went off, reassured, to the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, where she had collected the night before several piles of fagots, now covered with hoarfrost. The boy went with her, carrying fire in a broken wooden shoe.
Having shaken several pinches into the palm of his hand the Breton inhaled the tobacco like a man who is making ready for serious business. "It is cold," said Pille-Miche, rising to shut the upper half of the door. The daylight, already dim with fog, now entered only through the little window, and feebly lighted the room and the two seats; the fire, however, gave out a ruddy glow.
Just then Pille-Miche appeared in the gateway and called to the postilion who was left in the stable. At the same moment he saw the captain and covered him with his musket, shouting out, "By Saint Anne of Auray! the rector was right enough in telling us the Blues had signed a compact with the devil. I'll bring you to life, I will!" "Stop! my life is sacred," cried Merle, seeing his danger.
Hardly had his wife and son passed out of sight behind the shed when Galope-Chopine heard the noise of men jumping the successive barriers, and he could dimly see, through the fog which was growing thicker, the forms of two men like moving shadows. "It is Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche," he said, mentally; then he shuddered.
"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 hoarse cry as he started to find the postilion, and his glee brought death to Merle, whom he met on his way.
In spite of these agonizing cries, Pille-Miche saw that the fire did not yet scorch the skin; he drew the sticks cleverly together so as to make a slight flame. On this d'Orgemont called out in a quavering voice: "My friends, unbind me! How much do you want? A hundred crowns a thousand crowns ten thousand crowns a hundred thousand crowns I offer you two hundred thousand crowns!"
"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."
He ran himself to fetch the postilion, returning with all speed, and, as he repassed 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."
"Come, cousin, you know very well," said Pille-Miche, pocketing his snuff-box which Marche-a-Terre returned to him; "you are condemned." The two Chouans rose together and took their guns. "Monsieur Marche-a-Terre, I never said one word about the Gars " "I told you to fetch your axe," said Marche-a-Terre.
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