Galope-Chopine refilled the
beakers, but his guests refused to drink again, and throwing aside
their large hats looked at him solemnly. Their gestures and the look
they gave him terrified Galope-Chopine, who fancied he saw blood in
the red woollen caps they wore.
"Fetch your axe," said Marche-a-Terre.
"But, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre, what do you want it for?"
"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.
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."
"Why do you tell things to your wife?" said Marche-a-Terre, roughly.
"Besides, cousin, we don't want excuses, we want your axe. You are
condemned."
At a sign from his companion, Pille-Miche helped Marche-a-Terre to
seize the victim. Finding himself in their grasp Galope-Chopine lost
all power and fell on his knees holding up his hands to his slayers in
desperation.
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