"
"Hey, Marche-a-Terre," said the incorrigible Pille-Miche, who was
using his hands to drag himself along on his stomach, and had reached
the level of his comrade's ear. "If the Grande-Garce is to be believed
there'll be a fine booty to-day. Will you go shares with me?"
"Look here, Pille-Miche," said Marche-a-Terre stopping short on the
flat of his stomach. The other Chouans, who were accompanying the two
men, did the same, so wearied were they with the difficulties they had
met with in climbing the precipice. "I know you," continued
Marche-a-Terre, "for a Jack Grab-All who would rather give blows than
receive them when there's nothing else to be done. We have not come
here to grab dead men's shoes; we are devils against devils, and sorrow
to those whose claws are too short. The Grande-Garce has sent us here
to save the Gars. He is up there; lift your dog's nose and see that
window above the tower."
Midnight was striking. The moon rose, giving the appearance of white
smoke to the fog. Pille-Miche squeezed Marche-a-Terre's arm and
silently showed him on the terrace just above them, the triangular
iron of several shining bayonets.
"The Blues are there already," said Pille-Miche; "we sha'n't gain
anything by force."
"Patience," replied Marche-a-Terre; "if I examined right this morning,
we must be at the foot of the Papegaut tower between the ramparts and
the Promenade,--that place where they put the manure; it is like a
feather-bed to fall on.
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