These were men, though, who had seen life beyond the dreary landes, and faced more than the fierce, monotonous battling between sea and shore, such as engrossed their fellows.
And they had learnt to talk in Paris.
Loud, snarling talk of their precious liberty and the way in which they meant to earn it.
Ha, ha! They were beginning to find that out in Brittany too.
They had heard, even in Paris, how the aristocrats of St. Malo and Vannes—ay, and Nantes too—were learning that their day was done. And so, being Bretons themselves, they had come home to join in the fun, and teach their comrades and brothers how the work went in Paris.
Click! click! click! But there were plenty of ways to exterminate vermin besides taking them to the arms of the "widow."
Jean Gouicket and his friends listened agape, not sure whether to applaud or shiver, the former sweating in sudden fear when the great Trouet bellowed for more wine of a better flavour.
A threat underlay the command, and the trembling Gouicket made haste to obey, though it was gall and wormwood to the worthy man to bring to these vaurien comrades the wine which Monsieur le Comte, or M'nsieur l'Abbé would pay a big price for.
Before he returned Marcel had been joined by a stranger—a heavy-faced, ill-looking fellow with a tangle of rough hair, and wearing the sleeveless coat and plaited trousers of a Breton peasant.
But Marcel evidently found him amusing, for he did not even fill his glass with the wine Gouicket placed, with reverent fingers and very great reluctance, by his side.