Then he held out to Marche-a-Terre the little horn in which Bretons
put the finely powdered tobacco which they prepare themselves during
the long winter nights. The Chouan raised his thumb and made a hollow
in the palm of his hand, after the manner in which an "Invalide"
takes his tobacco; then he shook the horn, the small end of which
Pille-Miche had unscrewed. A fine powder fell slowly from the little
hole pierced in the point of this Breton utensil. Marche-a-Terre went
through the same process seven or eight times silently, as if the
powder had power to change the current of his thoughts. Suddenly he
flung the horn to Pille-Miche with a gesture of despair, and caught up
a gun which was hidden in the straw.
"Seven or eight shakes at once! I suppose you think that costs
nothing!" said the stingy Pille-Miche.
"Forward!" cried Marche-a-Terre in a hoarse voice. "There's work
before us."
Thirty or more Chouans who were sleeping in the straw under the
mangers, raised their heads, saw Marche-a-Terre on his feet, and
disappeared instantly through a door which led to the garden, from
which it was easy to reach the fields.
When Francine left the stable she found the mail-coach ready to start.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil and her new fellow-travellers were already in
it. The girl shuddered as she saw her young mistress sitting side by
side with the woman who had just ordered her death.
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