A savage oath exploded from M. le Représentant’s lips.
“That spy—that swaggerer—that Lacombe!” he muttered, looking at me. “He was vanished this morning—he and his ragged tail—when we rose. He got scent, without doubt, and has played outrider to my mission of search. If it is so; if he has found and removed—my God! but for all his Tallien and the Committee of Bordeaux he shall dance—he shall dance!”
He turned furiously to his men.
“Put the rascal upright,” he bellowed.
A couple of them lifted and spun the chair to its legs, so that the old man’s skull jerked against the head-rail with a clack like that of a mill-hopper. He did not seem to notice the blow. His eyes, ever since they had alighted on this new influx of brigands, had been set like a fish’s—wondering and unwinking. Now they slowly travelled, taking in Crépin, Citizen Thibaut, the escort, until they stopped—actually, it appeared, with a click—at Michel. His mouth puckered, and, like a ring blown by a smoker, a wavering “O!” issued from it.
“Your ci-devant servant?” said Crépin, grimly.
The old man nodded his head.
“Michel. But, yes—it is Michel.”
“Thou owest him compensation for that long tyranny of service.”
“I owe him nothing.”