“Join us,” said Marche-a-Terre, “and you shall have your share.”
“They’ll say I let the coach be robbed on purpose if I return without signs of violence.”
“Oh, is that all?” exclaimed Marche-a-Terre.
He gave a signal and a shower of bullets riddled the turgotine. At this unexpected volley the old vehicle gave forth such a lamentable cry that the Chouans, superstitious by nature, recoiled in terror; but Marche-a-Terre caught sight of the pallid face of the silent traveller rising from the floor of the coach.
“You’ve got another fowl in your coop,” he said in a low voice to Coupiau.
“Yes,” said the driver; “but I make it a condition of my joining you that I be allowed to take that worthy man safe and sound to Fougeres. I’m pledged to it in the name of Saint Anne of Auray.”
“Who is he?” asked Pille-Miche.
“That I can’t tell you,” replied Coupiau.
“Let him alone!” said Marche-a-Terre, shoving Pille-Miche with his elbow; “he has vowed by Saint Anne of Auray, and he must keep his word.”
“Very good,” said Pille-Miche, addressing Coupiau; “but mind you don’t go down the mountain too fast; we shall overtake you,—a good reason why; I want to see the cut of your traveller, and give him his passport.”