"
"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.
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 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."
He snatched up the glove and said to Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who was
already in the coach with Francine: "Here, take this glove. If any of
our men attack you on the road, call out 'Ho, the Gars!' show the
glove, and no harm can happen to you. Francine," he said, turning
towards her and seizing her violently, "you and I are quits with that
woman; come with me and let the devil have her."
"You can't ask me to abandon her just at this moment!" cried Francine,
in distress.
Marche-a-Terre scratched his ear and forehead, then he raised his
head, and his mistress saw the ferocious expression of his eyes.
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