“It is cold,” said Pille-Miche, rising to shut the upper half of the door.
The daylight, already dim with fog, now entered only through the little window, and feebly lighted the room and the two seats; the fire, however, gave out a ruddy glow. Galope-Chopine refilled the beakers, but his guests refused to drink again, and throwing aside their large hats looked at him solemnly. Their gestures and the look they gave him terrified Galope-Chopine, who fancied he saw blood in the red woollen caps they wore.
“Fetch your axe,” said Marche-a-Terre.
“But, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre, what do you want it for?”
“Come, cousin, you know very well,” said Pille-Miche, pocketing his snuff-box which Marche-a-Terre returned to him; “you are condemned.”
The two Chouans rose together and took their guns.
“Monsieur Marche-a-Terre, I never said one word about the Gars—”
“I told you to fetch your axe,” said Marche-a-Terre.
The hapless man knocked against the wooden bedstead of his son, and several five-franc pieces rolled on the floor. Pille-Miche picked them up.
“Ho! ho! the Blues paid you in new money,” cried Marche-a-Terre.