“Ho! old woman!” called Hulot, in a low voice, approaching her, “where is the Gars?”
The twenty men who accompanied Hulot now jumped the hedge.
“Hey! if you want the Gars you’ll have to go back the way you came,” said the woman, with a suspicious glance at the troop.
“Did I ask you the road to Fougeres, old carcass?” said Hulot, roughly. “By Saint-Anne of Auray, have you seen the Gars go by?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” replied the woman, bending over her hoe.
“You damned garce, do you want to have us eaten up by the Blues who are after us?”
At these words the woman raised her head and gave another look of distrust at the troop as she replied, “How can the Blues be after you? I have just seen eight or ten of them who were going back to Fougeres by the lower road.”
“One would think she meant to stab us with that nose of hers!” cried Hulot. “Here, look, you old nanny-goat!”
And he showed her in the distance three or four of his sentinels, whose hats, guns, and uniforms it was easy to recognize.
“Are you going to let those fellows cut the throats of men who are sent by Marche-a-Terre to protect the Gars?” he cried, angrily.