“Do you dare to fight your country?” retorted Gerard.
“Folly!” said the marquis.
“Parricide!” exclaimed the Republican.
“Well, well,” cried Merle, gaily, “a pretty time to quarrel at the moment of your death.”
“True,” said Gerard, coldly, turning to the marquis. “Monsieur, if it is your intention to put us to death, at least have the goodness to shoot us at once.”
“Ah! that’s like you, Gerard,” said Merle, “always in a hurry to finish things. But if one has to travel far and can’t breakfast on the morrow, at least we might sup.”
Gerard sprang forward without a word towards the wall. Pille-Miche covered him, glancing as he did so at the motionless marquis, whose silence he took for an order, and the adjutant-major fell like a tree. Marche-a-Terre ran to share the fresh booty with Pille-Miche; like two hungry crows they disputed and clamored over the still warm body.
“If you really wish to finish your supper, captain, you can come with me,” said the marquis to Merle.
The captain followed him mechanically, saying in a low voice: “It is that devil of a strumpet that caused all this. What will Hulot say?”
“Strumpet!” cried the marquis in a strangled voice, “then she is one?”