“Halt!” cried a voice almost beside the window, and old Jacques the coachman could be heard saying,—
“But, messieurs, my master and mistress—”
“Peace, knave, let thy betters speak for themselves.”
At this a rude leering face was thrust into the window, and a man pulled roughly at the carriage door and cried,—
“Step out, and quickly too, and bring out your valuables with you.”
“But we are travellers, and have with us barely enough to carry us to Calais, where our ship lies at anchor,” said Pierre, trying not to let his voice show his anger and disgust.
“What will serve you will serve us also at a pinch. Is it not so, Jean?” and he turned to a third ruffian who stood at hand, holding by the bridle some sorry-looking horses.
“Truth, if we take all they have, ’t will be enough, but do not wait too long,” answered the one named Jean, who wore a soldier’s cap with a soiled and broken feather trailing over one ear.
At the first appearance of the highwaymen at the carriage window, Clemence had handed little Annette to Marie, and in so doing had managed to slip among her clothes the precious packet of jewels. She gave Marie a warning look, and when they were commanded to step from the coach, she begged, for the sake of the child, that it and the nurse might sit within.
“You can see for yourselves that neither the infant nor the aged woman has aught of value,” said she.