‘As for you, mademoiselle,’ said I, ‘you are a farceuse.’
‘And,’ added the man, ‘what the devil have you done to be still here?’
What the devil, indeed! But there I was.
‘The great thing,’ said I, ‘is to make an end of it’; and once more proposed that he should help me to find a guide.
‘C’est que,’ he said again, ‘c’est que—il fait noir.’
‘Very well,’ said I; ‘take one of your lanterns.’
‘No,’ he cried, drawing a thought backward, and again intrenching himself behind one of his former phrases; ‘I will not cross the door.’
I looked at him. I saw unaffected terror struggling on his face with unaffected shame; he was smiling pitifully and wetting his lip with his tongue, like a detected schoolboy. I drew a brief picture of my state, and asked him what I was to do.
‘I don’t know,’ he said; ‘I will not cross the door.’
Here was the Beast of Gévaudan, and no mistake.