Corentin and Michu left the house.
“The gun which you were loading yesterday at four o’clock you meant to use in murdering the Councillor of State; but we can’t take you up for that—plenty of intention, but no witnesses. You managed, I don’t know how, to stupefy Violette, and you and your wife and that young rascal of yours spent the night out of doors to warn Mademoiselle de Cinq-Cygne and save her cousins, whom you are hiding here,—though I don’t as yet know where. Your son or your wife threw the corporal off his horse cleverly enough. Well, you’ve got the better of us just now; you’re a devil of a fellow. But the end is not yet, and you won’t have the last word. Hadn’t you better compromise? your masters would be the better for it.”
“Come this way, where we can talk without being overheard,” said Michu, leading the way through the park to the pond.
When Corentin saw the water he looked fixedly at Michu, who was no doubt reckoning on his physical strength to fling the spy into seven feet of mud below three feet of water. Michu replied with a look that was not less fixed. The scene was absolutely as if a cold and flabby boa constrictor had defied one of those tawny, fierce leopards of Brazil.
“I am not thirsty,” said Corentin, stopping short at the edge of the field and putting his hand into his pocket to feel for his dagger.
“We shall never come to terms,” said Michu, coldly.
“Mind what you’re about, my good fellow; the law has its eye upon you.”
“If the law can’t see any clearer than you, there’s danger to every one,” said the bailiff.
“Do you refuse?” said Corentin, in a significant tone.
“I’d rather have my head cut off a thousand times, if that could be done, than come to an agreement with such a villain as you.”