"But--" began Picaut, objecting.
"But?--what do you mean?"
"I mean that, after four hours of such a run as I have just made, my legs are breaking under me."
"Joseph Picaut," replied Maître Jacques, whose voice grew strident and metallic, like the blare of a trumpet, "you left your parish and enrolled yourself in my band. You came here; I did not ask you. Now, recollect one thing: at the first objection I strike; at the second I kill."
As he spoke Maître Jacques pulled a pistol from his jacket, grasped it by the barrel, and struck a vigorous blow with the butt-end on Picaut's head. The shock was so violent that the peasant, quite bewildered, came down on one knee. Probably, without the protection of his hat, which was made of thick felt, his skull would have been fractured.
"And now, go!" said Maître Jacques, calmly looking to see if the blow had shaken the powder from the pan.
Without a word Joseph Picaut picked himself up, shook his head, and went off. Courte-Joie watched him till he was out of sight; then he looked at Maître Jacques.
"Do you allow such fellows as that in your band?" he said.
"Yes; don't speak of it!"
"Have you had him long?"