"We don't expect you to sing like Monsieur Nourrit," observed a Parisian.
"Make it a bit quizzical," said another man, "and the more the better."
"As I have eaten your bread and drunk your wine," said Courte-Joie, "I have no right to refuse you anything; but, I repeat it, my songs will probably not be to your taste."
And thereupon, he trolled out the following stanza:--
"Look! look! my gars, down there! down there! Don't you see the infernal band? Spread out, spread out, surprise them there, Behind the gorse, across the land. Spread out! I say, my gars! my gars! Await the Blues with steady hand."
Courte-Joie got no farther. After a moment of surprised silence at his first words a roar of indignation arose; ten soldiers sprang upon him and the sergeant, seizing him by the collar, threw him on the ground.
"Villain!" he cried, "I'll teach you to come here in our midst and sing praises to your brigands."
But before the words were well out of his mouth (words to which he added a variety of adverbs that were customary with him) Trigaud, his eyes flashing with anger, made his way through to Courte-Joie, pushed back the sergeant and stood before his comrade in so threatening an attitude that the soldiers remained for some moments silent and uncertain.
But soon, mortified at being held at bay by an unarmed man, they drew their sabres, and rushed upon the beggars.
"Kill them! kill them!" they cried; "they are Chouans!"