“And what was to be the end?” asked Crépin.
“Citizen Représentant, we could not decide; yet a show of hands was in favour of singeing over a slow fire. Grace of God! but it would seem the accused has forestalled the jury.”
He had not, however.
“Give him brandy,” said Crépin; “and bring him to the shed yonder, when recovered, for the procès verbal.”
He took my arm, and we went off together to the place designated,—an outbuilding half full of fagots. On the way he beckoned the crying aubergiste, who had followed him into the yard, to attend us.
“For the present the man is saved,” he said to her when we were alone. “Now, what is your interest in the rascal?”
“Monsieur, he was an honest man once.”
“Of the neighbourhood?”
She looked up at him with her little imploring red eyes.
“Come,” he said; “I owe you the debt of a grateful digestion.”