§4
Anon he uttered a sigh of satisfaction. The soldier had returned, was even now in the doorway with a comrade—a short, thick-set, powerful-looking fellow—beside him.
"Sergeant Chazot!" Chauvelin said abruptly.
"At your commands, citizen!" the sergeant replied, and at a sign from the other followed him to the most distant corner of the room.
"Bend your ear and listen," Chauvelin murmured peremptorily. "I don't want those fools to hear." And, having assured himself that he and Chazot could speak without being overheard, he pointed to Rateau, then went on rapidly: "You will take this lout over to the cavalry barracks. See the veterinary. Tell him——"
He paused, as if unable to proceed. His lips were trembling, his face, ashen-white, looked spectral in the gloom. Chazot, not understanding, waited patiently.
"That lout," Chauvelin resumed more steadily after a while, "is in collusion with a gang of dangerous English spies. One Englishman especially—tall, and a master of histrionics—uses this man as a kind of double. Perhaps you heard . . .?"
Chazot nodded.
"I know, citizen," he said sagely. "The Fraternal Supper in the Rue St. Honoré. Comrades have told me that no one could tell who was Rateau the coalheaver and who the English milor."
"Exactly!" Chauvelin rejoined dryly, quite firmly now. "Therefore, I want to make sure. The veterinary, you understand? He brands the horses for the cavalry. I want a brand on this lout's arm. Just a letter . . . a distinguishing mark . . ."