“He will never wake,” he suggested timidly.
The possession of a common and momentous secret draws men together. Peyrol condescended to explain.
“You don’t know the thickness of his skull. I do.”
He spoke as though he had made it himself. Michel, who in the face of that positive statement had forgotten to shut his mouth, had nothing to say.
“He breathes all right?” asked Peyrol.
“Yes. After I got out and locked the door I listened for a bit and I thought I heard him snore.”
Peyrol looked interested and also slightly anxious.
“I had to come up and show myself this morning as if nothing had happened,” he said. “The officer has been here for two days, and he might have taken it into his head to go down to the tartane. I have been on the stretch all the morning. A goat jumping up was enough to give me a turn. Fancy him running up here with his broken head all bandaged up, with you after him.”
This seemed to be too much for Michel. He said almost indignantly:
“The man’s half killed.”