"Hang it! they say you've turned your coat, and nothing can be seen but the lining of it,--so that what was blue is now white."
"Well done!" said Courtin; "if that isn't nonsense!"
"You've given occasion for it, my man; and since your young master went over to the Whites it is a fact that you've stopped gabbling against them as you once did."
"Gabbling!" exclaimed Courtin, with his slyest look, "what's the good of that? I have something better to do than gabble, and--and you'll hear of it soon, my lad."
"So much the better! for, don't you see, Maître Courtin, all these public troubles are death to business. If patriots can't agree, they'll die of poverty and hunger instead of being shot like our forefathers. Whereas, if we could only get rid of those troublesome gars who roam the forests about here and make trouble, business would soon pick up, and that's all we want."
"Roaming?" repeated Courtin, "who are roaming? Seems to me that none but ghosts are left to roam now."
"Pooh! there's plenty of them left. It isn't ten minutes since I saw the boldest of them go by, gun in hand, pistols in his belt,--just as if there weren't any red-breeches in the land."
"Who was he?"
"Joseph Picaut, by God!--the man who killed his brother."
"Joseph Picaut! here?" exclaimed Courtin, turning livid. "It isn't possible!"