“I don’t doubt it!” cried the marquis. “Pichegru advises me to be cautious and watchful in my friendships and relations of every kind. The Republic does me the honor to think me more dangerous than all the Vendeans put together, and counts on certain of my weaknesses to lay hands upon me.”
“Surely you will not distrust me?” she said, striking his heart with the hand by which she held to him.
“Are you a traitor, madame?” he said, bending towards her his forehead, which she kissed.
“In that case,” said the abbe, referring to the news, “Fouche’s police will be more dangerous for us than their battalions of recruits and counter-Chouans.”
“Yes, true enough, father,” replied the marquis.
“Ah! ah!” cried the lady. “Fouche means to send women against you, does he? I shall be ready for them,” she added in a deeper tone of voice and after a slight pause.
At a distance of three or four gunshots from the plateau, now abandoned, a little scene was taking place which was not uncommon in those days on the high-roads. After leaving the little village of La Pelerine, Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre again stopped the turgotine at a dip in the road. Coupiau got off his seat after making a faint resistance. The silent traveller, extracted from his hiding place by the two Chouans, found himself on his knees in a furze bush.
“Who are you?” asked Marche-a-Terre in a threatening voice.
The traveller kept silence until Pille-Miche put the question again and enforced it with the butt end of his gun.