Crépin laughed again, then suddenly turned grave, and leaned down towards me.
“Harkee, M. le Comte!” he said, “is thy pocket well lined?”
“With good intentions, M. le Président.”
He nodded and, fetching a little bag of skin out of his breast, forced it into my hand.
“It is all I can spare,” he said; “and with that I must acquit my conscience of the matter.”
“If ever I live to repay thee, good fellow——”
“Ah, bah, monsieur! I owe thee for the Médoc. And now—escape if thou seest the way open. This strange creature will be thy bond-slave while the keg runs. Afterwards—eh bien! C’est à toi la balle. For food, thou must do as others here—take toll of the country carts as they journey to the barriers. They will not provide thee with sweetbreads in wine; but—well, monsieur, there are fifty ways, after all, of cooking a cabbage.”
I rose, with difficulty, to my feet. Carinne, still seated on the floor, held her hand in mine. Something like a gentle quinsy in my throat embarrassed my speech.
“Good citizen——” I muttered.
Crépin made a gesture with his hand and backed in a hurry.