"He has gone with Marcel Trouet to France," said Michael, in even, quiet tones.
Sir Stephen looked slily up.
"Marcel Trouet? Ha! ha! He's the birdsh for Paris. Paris! I knowsh Paris. Course I do! Not going there now, though. Marcel may go alone. No redsh caps for me. Mightn't leave head to wear it on. No, no. I'm goingsh, Morry."
"And Morry is going to——?"
"Brittany. Thatsh it! Brittany. Never, never will be slaves. No, no, thatsh wrong. Morry's a Marquish. Gran' thing Marquish, but Morry's not proud. Red capsh for Morry, Marshellaise. Send all the demsh arist'crats to the guillotine. That's what Trouet wants. Goodsh fellow, Trouet. Those demsh Bretons such fools. Don't know where breadsh buttered. Morry'll teach 'em, an' the little Count can sit an' shing to Gabrielle. Pretty girl, Gabrielle, Morry's shishter. The little Count'll be waitingsh, an' waitingsh. Ha, ha! 'Have to wait,' says Marcel. Bumpers on that. Morry'll dosh own work to ownsh tune. Won't be dictated to by whipper-shnappers. I'm with Morry—Denningham an' I'sh with Morry. All goin' together. Good joke that. Right side too. No danger there. Quality, libertysh, fraternitish."
His head fell forward as he spoke, though he lay chuckling still.
And Michael, standing there in that mean room, with the helpless, drunken figure in a bunch before him, felt his pulses stir with something more wild and despairing than mere loathing.
The tale, which would have been incomprehensible enough but for Mollie Cooling, was plain now.
Urged to it by the subtle arguments of Marcel Trouet, Morice Conyers was evidently allowing himself to betray not only his own order, but his own kith and kin.
The simple Breton peasants, who awaited the word of their seigneur, were to hear it as young de Quernais had asked that they should.