“You are pretty free with your tongue, any way,” said the driver, shaking his head.
“Count your lambs, and the wolf will eat them,” remarked another of the travellers.
This man, who was dressed in black, seemed to be about forty years old, and was, probably, the rector of some parish in the neighborhood. His chin rested on a double fold of flesh, and his florid complexion indicated a priest. Though short and fat, he displayed some agility when required to get in or out of the vehicle.
“Perhaps you are both Chouans!” cried the man of the thousand francs, whose ample goatskin, covering trousers of good cloth and a clean waistcoat, bespoke a rich farmer. “By the soul of Saint Robespierre! I swear you shall be roughly handled.”
He turned his gray eyes from the driver to his fellow-travellers and showed them a pistol in his belt.
“Bretons are not afraid of that,” said the rector, disdainfully. “Besides, do we look like men who want your money?”
Every time the word “money” was mentioned the driver was silent, and the rector had wit enough to doubt whether the patriot had any at all, and to suspect that the driver was carrying a good deal.
“Are you well laden, Coupiau?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Monsieur Gudin,” replied the coachman. “I’m carrying next to nothing.”
The priest watched the faces of the patriot and Coupiau as the latter made this answer, and both were imperturbable.