“It was I who shot that Italian dog, Pietro Andrei,” he mentioned in confidence, “on the road below Olmeta—but that was a personal matter.”
“Ah!” said Lory, who had heard the story of Andrei's death on the market-place at Olmeta, and the stern determination of his widow to avenge it.
“Yes—I was starving, and Andrei had money on him. In the old days it was easy enough to get food in the macquis. One could come down into the villages at night. But now it is different. It is a hard life there now, and one may easily die of starvation. There are many who, like Pietro Andrei, are friendly with the gendarmes.”
He finished with a gesture of supreme disgust, as if friendship with a gendarme were the basest of crimes.
“When did you see the Abbé Susini?” asked Lory, “and where—if you can tell me that?”
“I saw him in the macquis. He often goes up into the mountains alone, dressed like one of us. He is a queer man, that abbé. He says that he sometimes thinks it well to care for the wanderers from his flock—a jest, you see.”
And the man gave his crooked grin again.
“It was above Asco, in the high mountains near Cinto,” he continued, “and about a week ago. It was he who gave me money, and told me to come and fight for France. He was arranging for others to do the same.”
“The abbé is a practical man,” said Lory.
“Yes—and he told me news of Olmeta,” said the man, glancing sideways at his companion.