Came Grandmaison cursing and swearing at the sluggishness of the Marats, reminding them—as he had been reminding them for the last hour—that it was time to be off, that the tide was on the ebb.
Stimulated by him, Jolly—the red-capped giant with the black mustaches—and some others of the Marat Company, set themselves to tie the prisoners into chains of twenty, further to ensure against possible evasion. They were driven into the chilly courtyard, and there Grandmaison, followed by a fellow with a lantern, passed along the ranks counting them.
The result infuriated him.
“A hundred and five!” he roared, and swore horribly. “You have been here nearly five hours, and in all that time you have managed to truss up only a hundred and five. Are we never to get through with it? I tell you the tide is ebbing. It is time to be off.”
Laqueze, the porter of Le Bouffay, with whose food and wine those myrmidons of the committee had made so disgracefully free, came to assure him that he had all who were in the prison.
“All?” cried Grandmaison, aghast. “But according to the list there should have been nearer two hundred.” And he raised his voice to call: “Goullin! Hola, Goullin! Where the devil is Goullin?”
“The list,” Laqueze told him, “was drawn up from the register. But you have not noted that many have died since they came—we have had the fever here—and that a few are now in hospital.”
“In hospital! Bah! Go up, some of you, and fetch them. We are taking them somewhere where they will be cured.” And then he hailed the elegant Goullin, who came up wrapped in a cloak. “Here's a fine bathing-party!” he grumbled. “A rare hundred of these swine!”
Goullin turned to Laqueze.
“What have you done with the fifteen brigands I sent you this evening?”