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Updated: June 24, 2025
"If, after all this information," the lady was saying to the Chouan, "it proves not to be her real name, you are to fire upon her without pity, as you would on a mad dog." "Agreed!" said Marche-a-Terre. The lady left him.
But, anyhow," he added, in a voice that was lower still, "go and tell Monsieur Marche-a-Terre what has happened." The traveller, who was a young man of medium height, wore a dark blue coat and high black gaiters coming above the knee and over the breeches, which were also of blue cloth. This simple uniform, without epaulets, was that of the pupils of the Ecole Polytechnique.
In spite of his muffling goatskin and thanks to this movement which allowed her to see his face, Francine recognized the Chouan, Marche-a-Terre, with his heavy whip; she saw him, indistinctly, in the obscurity of the stable, fling himself down on a pile of straw, in a position which enabled him to keep an eye on all that happened at the inn.
Your cousin Pille-Miche has asked the Gars to give you the surveillance of Fougeres, and the Gars consents, and you'll be well paid but you know with what flour we bake a traitor's bread." "Yes, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre." "And you know why I tell you that. Some say you like cider and gambling, but you can't play heads or tails now, remember; you must belong to us only, or "
A few moments later Marche-a-Terre, who had left his comrade mounting guard over his prey, led the coach from the stable to the causeway, where Pille-Miche got into it beside Mademoiselle de Verneuil, not perceiving that she was on the point of making a spring into the lake. "I say, Pille-Miche!" cried Marche-a-Terre. "What!" "I'll buy all your booty."
She watched the stable and the heaps of straw with the absorption of one who was saying her prayers to the Virgin, and she presently saw Madame du Gua approaching Marche-a-Terre with the precaution of a cat that dislikes to wet its feet. When the Chouan caught sight of the lady, he rose and stood before her in an attitude of deep respect.
Those were happy hours during which Honore de Balzac withdrew to his first-floor room, seated himself before a little table placed close to the window, and wrote with feverish elation of the heroic acts of the Blues and the Chouans, of Commander Hulot, Marche-a-Terre and the Abbe Gudin, and wove tangled threads of the adventures of Fouche's spy Mlle. de Verneuil, who set forth to save the young stripling and allowed herself to be caught in the divine snare of love.
Your house must be badly furnished if it can't give its master all he wants to warm him." The victim uttered a sharp cry, as if he hoped someone would hear him through the ceiling and come to his assistance. "Ho! sing away, Monsieur d'Orgemont; they are all asleep upstairs, and Marche-a-Terre is just behind me; he'll shut the cellar door."
And he showed her in the distance three or four of his sentinels, whose hats, guns, and uniforms it was easy to recognize. "Are you going to let those fellows cut the throats of men who are sent by Marche-a-Terre to protect the Gars?" he cried, angrily. "Ah, beg pardon," said the woman; "but it is so easy to be deceived. What parish do you belong to?"
The hapless man knocked against the wooden bedstead of his son, and several five-franc pieces rolled on the floor. Pille-Miche picked them up. "Ho! ho! the Blues paid you in new money," cried Marche-a-Terre. "As true as that's the image of Saint-Labre," said Galope-Chopine, "I have told nothing. Barbette mistook the Fougeres men for the gars of Saint-Georges, and that's the whole of it."
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