Tanrade was busy between puffs of his pipe in transposing various passages in his latest score. Now and then he would hesitate, finger the carefully thought out bar on his knee, and again his stub of a pencil would fly on through a maze of hieroglyphics that were to the curé and myself wholly unintelligible.
Suddenly the curé looked up, his keen gaze rivetted upon two dots of figures on bicycles speeding rapidly toward us along the path skirting the marsh.
"Hello!" exclaimed the curé, and he gave a low whistle. "The gendarmes!"
There was no mistaking their identity; their gold stripes and white duck trousers appeared distinctly against the tawny marsh.
The next moment they dismounted, left their wheels on the path, and came slowly across the desert of wire-grass toward us.
"Diable!" muttered Tanrade, under his breath, and instantly our minds reverted to Le Bour.
The two officials of the law were before us.
"We regret to disturb you, messieurs," began the taller of the two pleasantly as he extracted a note-book from a leather case next to his revolver. "But"—and he shrugged his military shoulders—"it is for the little affair at Hirondelette."
"Which one of us is elected?" asked Tanrade grimly.
"Ah! Bon Dieu!" returned the tall one; half apologetically. "A procès-verbal unfortunately for you, Monsieur Tanrade. Read the charge," he said to the short one, who had now unfolded a paper, cleared his throat, and began to read in a monotonous tone.