"They made me believe they were the gars of Saint-Georges," she said,
trembling, "it was I who told them the Gars was here."
Galope-Chopine turned pale himself and dropped his porringer on the
table.
"I sent the boy to warn you," said Barbette, frightened, "didn't you
meet him?"
The Chouan rose and struck his wife so violently that she dropped,
pale as death, upon the bed.
"You cursed woman," he said, "you have killed me!" Then seized with
remorse, he took her in his arms. "Barbette!" he cried, "Barbette!
--Holy Virgin, my hand was too heavy!"
"Do you think," she said, opening her eyes, "that Marche-a-Terre will
hear of it?"
"The Gars will certainly inquire who betrayed him."
"Will he tell it to Marche-a-Terre?"
"Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche were both at Florigny."
Barbette breathed a little easier.
"If they touch a hair of your head," she cried, "I'll rinse their
glasses with vinegar."
"Ah! I can't eat," said Galope-Chopine, anxiously.
His wife set another pitcher full of cider before him, but he paid no
heed to it. Two big tears rolled from the woman's eyes and moistened
the deep furrows of her withered face.
"Listen to me, wife; to-morrow morning you must gather fagots on the
rocks of Saint-Sulpice, to the right and Saint-Leonard and set fire to
them. That is a signal agreed upon between the Gars and the old rector
of Saint-Georges who is to come and say mass for him.
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