“I am Jacques Pinaud,” he replied, with a glance at Coupiau; “a poor linen-draper.”
Coupiau made a sign in the negative, not considering it an infraction of his promise to Saint Anne. The sign enlightened Pille-Miche, who took aim at the luckless traveller, while Marche-a-Terre laid before him categorically a terrible ultimatum.
“You are too fat to be poor. If you make me ask you your name again, here’s my friend Pille-Miche, who will obtain the gratitude and good-will of your heirs in a second. Who are you?” he added, after a pause.
“I am d’Orgemont, of Fougeres.”
“Ah! ah!” cried the two Chouans.
“I didn’t tell your name, Monsieur d’Orgemont,” said Coupiau. “The Holy Virgin is my witness that I did my best to protect you.”
“Inasmuch as you are Monsieur d’Orgemont, of Fougeres,” said Marche-a-Terre, with an air of ironical respect, “we shall let you go in peace. Only, as you are neither a good Chouan nor a true Blue (thought it was you who bought the property of the Abbey de Juvigny), you will pay us three hundred crowns of six francs each for your ransom. Neutrality is worth that, at least.”
“Three hundred crowns of six francs each!” chorussed the luckless banker, Pille-Miche, and Coupiau, in three different tones.
“Alas, my good friend,” continued d’Orgemont, “I’m a ruined man. The last forced loan of that devilish Republic for a hundred millions sucked me dry, taxed as I was already.”
“How much did your Republic get out of you?”