“Do you think,” she said, opening her eyes, “that Marche-a-Terre will hear of it?”
“The Gars will certainly inquire who betrayed him.”
“Will he tell it to Marche-a-Terre?”
“Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche were both at Florigny.”
Barbette breathed a little easier.
“If they touch a hair of your head,” she cried, “I’ll rinse their glasses with vinegar.”
“Ah! I can’t eat,” said Galope-Chopine, anxiously.
His wife set another pitcher full of cider before him, but he paid no heed to it. Two big tears rolled from the woman’s eyes and moistened the deep furrows of her withered face.
“Listen to me, wife; to-morrow morning you must gather fagots on the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, to the right and Saint-Leonard and set fire to them. That is a signal agreed upon between the Gars and the old rector of Saint-Georges who is to come and say mass for him.”
“Is the Gars going to Fougeres?”