“You mean to say they are running away from their village of Trois-Feuilles?” I asked. 28
“Exactly,” he said. “War is a rude guest for poor folk.”
Disgusted with the cowardice of the hamlet of Trois-Feuilles, I passed on without noticing the man’s sneer. In a moment, however, he repassed me swiftly, going in the same direction as were we, toward La Trappe.
“Wait a bit!” I called out. “What is your business in that direction, monsieur the notary?”
He looked around, muttered indistinctly about having forgotten something, and started on ahead of us, but at a sharp “Stop!” from me he halted quickly enough.
“Your road lies the other way,” I observed, and, as he began to protest, I cut him short.
“You change your direction too quickly to suit me,” I said. “Come, my friend the weather-cock, turn your nose east and follow it or I may ask you some questions that might frighten you.”
And so I left him also staring after us, and I had half a mind to go back and examine his portfolio to see what a snipe-faced notary might be carrying about with him.
When I looked up at my turkey-girl, she was sitting more easily in the saddle, head bent thoughtfully.
“You see, mademoiselle, I take no chances of not finding my friends at home,” I said.