“Who has sold me?” he asked, in a strained, unnatural voice.
“Your friends—the two men who supped there at that table.”
“Impossible, Madame, impossible!”
He did not suspect the designs and hopes of his former comrades; and he could not, he would not believe them capable of ignobly betraying him for gold.
“But,” pleaded the innkeeper’s wife, still on her knees before him, “they have just started for Saint-Jean-de-Coche, where they will denounce you. I heard them say that your life would purchase theirs. They have certainly gone to summon the gendarmes! Is this not enough, or am I obliged to endure the shame of confessing that my own husband, too, has gone to betray you.”
Lacheneur understood it all now! And this supreme misfortune, after all the misery he had endured, broke him down completely.
Great tears gushed from his eyes, and sinking down into a chair, he murmured:
“Let them come; I am ready for them. No, I will not stir from here. My miserable life is not worth such a struggle.”
But the wife of the traitor rose, and grasping the unfortunate man’s clothing, she shook him, she dragged him to the door—she would have carried him had she possessed sufficient strength.
“You shall not remain here,” said she, with extraordinary vehemence. “Fly, save yourself. You shall not be taken here; it will bring misfortune upon our house!”