"I do," he replied, in the same tone. "In fact," with a grin, "I say that you are an honest man on the wrong side, M. de Berault. And you say that you are a scoundrel on the right. The advantage, however, is with me, and I shall back my opinion by arresting you."
A ripple of coarse laughter ran round the hollow. The sergeant who held the lanthorn grinned, and a trooper at a distance called out of the darkness, "A bon chat bon rat!" This brought a fresh burst of laughter, while I stood speechless, confounded by the stubbornness, the crassness, the insolence, of the man. "You fool!" I cried at last, "you fool!" And then M. de Cocheforêt, who had come out of the hut, and taken his stand at my elbow, interrupted me.
"Pardon me one moment," he said airily, looking at the lieutenant, with raised eyebrows, and pointing to me with his thumb. "But I am puzzled between you. This gentleman's name? Is it de Berault or de Barthe?"
"I am M. de Berault," I said brusquely, answering for myself.
"Of Paris?"
"Yes, Monsieur, of Paris."
"You are not then the gentleman who has been honouring my poor house with his presence?"
"Oh, yes!" the lieutenant struck in, grinning. "He is that gentleman, too!"
"But I thought--I understood that that was M. de Barthe."
"I am M. de Barthe, also," I retorted impatiently. "What of that, Monsieur? It was my mother's name. I took it when I came down here."