Pierre was offended. He rose and stood glaring at François with wide-open eyes; then he said, as if to himself: "The marquis is near Evreux. Let him take heed!"
"Mon Dieu! He will eat thee as he would the frogs of his moat, that man! I am not of those who fear, but if I had angered him—"
"I have named him to the great Robespierre, the just, the good. He will remember him."
"Then go; and the devil take the whole lot of you!"
"I shall go. But do not say thou art an aristocrat, for then I must hate thee."
"Grand merci! Thou poor, fat little pug, canst thou hate?"
"Aye, as hell hates." Upon this Toto took refuge under his master's bed.
François rose, and, standing in front of the flushed, fat little man, set a hand on each of Pierre's shoulders and stopped his excited march.
"I cannot understand thee. I never could contrive to hate even a gendarme, and if hell hates, I know not. Thou art helpless as a turtle that is on his back. What use to kick? No; do not answer me. Hear me out. I shall go my way—thou thy way. I served thee a good turn once, and thou hast helped me to a living. Now I like not thy ways; thou art going mad, I think."
"Perhaps—perhaps," returned Pierre, gloomily. "Well, c'est fini—'t is done. Now to settle."