The traitor’s body had been thrown on the ground, in a corner of the room, the bed was overturned and broken, all the straw had been torn from the mattress, and the wife and sons of the dead man, armed with pickaxes and spades, were wildly overturning the beaten soil that formed the floor of the hovel. They were seeking the hidden treasures.
“What do you want?” demanded the widow, rudely.
“Father Chupin.”
“You can see very plainly that he has been murdered,” replied one of the sons.
And brandishing his pick a few inches from Jean’s head, he exclaimed:
“And you, perhaps, are the assassin. But that is for justice to determine. Now, decamp; if you do not——”
Had he listened to the promptings of anger, Jean Lacheneur would certainly have attempted to make the Chupins repent their menaces.
But a conflict was scarcely permissible under the circumstances.
He departed without a word, and hastened back to the Borderie.
The death of Chupin overturned all his plans, and greatly irritated him.