The sounds were André and his wife talking. At this hour of the night, or morning! And gradually, with his senses strained to the utmost, he was enabled to catch almost every word that they uttered.
"But," said the woman, "I like it not. It is treachery—bassesse. And he is beau. Mon Dieu! mais il est beau——"
"Peste!" the man replied. "It is always of les beaux you think. Once 'twas the fisher from Havre, then Le Bic, of the maréchausse, now this one. And why base? The king pays a hundred gold pistoles for such as he. And if not to us, then others will get it. Why not we?"
"You are sure? You are not mistaken?"
"Sure! From the first moment. Though I held my peace. Ho! why frighten the bird away from the nest? At first the hair and mustache puzzled me—then——"
St. Georges started as he heard this. Now he knew of whom they talked.
"—it came back to me. A galérien in the Raquin, a surly dog—one of the worst; one of those who had been gentlemen. Gentlemen! Ma foi! I have made their backs tingle often, often!"
"Ay!" muttered St. Georges between his teeth, "you have! 'Tis true."
"You are certain?" the woman asked again. "A mistake would be terrible—would send you back to the galleys yourself, only as beaten slave—not overseer."
"Certain! So will the others be when he is taken—alive or dead. There on his shoulder, ma belle, they will see proof—the fleur-de-lis. Fortunate for him he was not a religious prisoner, a victim of our holy Church. Otherwise it would have been burnt into his cheek, and he would have been so marked he could not have escaped a day!"