It is not difficult to conjecture that Jeannet, in spite of his heart-troubles and sorrows, had not been—sharp as he was—blind to the character of the men who worked under his orders in the wood of Montreux. In the first place, Michou warned him from the beginning to be watchful, and not to allow the slightest infringement of discipline or drunkenness among men, who were unknown and of decidedly doubtful appearance. One warning sufficed; he observed for himself, and caught at random more than one stray expression which he chanced to overhear. And then, what could be expected from men who seemed to be without family or friends, who never frequented the church, and shunned the places where the honest people of the commune were accustomed to assemble? Certainly, our good Jean-Louis was not wanting in penetration, and old Michou, who prided himself upon seeing very far into everything, was as distrustful as he; consequently, they agreed that every night one or the other should take a turn around the retreat of the wood-cutters, and see what was going on in this nest of mischievous rascals. To do this, Jeannet had skilfully managed to make an opening in the angle opposite to that where the men had established their fireplace, so that, the room being well lighted inside, everything could be clearly seen outside.
Usually, and for many nights, all was quiet and orderly; the greater part of the band of la Martine, tired out with the day's labors, slept soundly all the evening, stretched pell-mell upon heaps of dried leaves strewed over the floor of their bivouac. Only a few remained drinking by the hearth; so that the watchers, after a glance around, went off to sleep in their turn.
On the night of which I speak, Michou should have made the round, but Jean-Louis, who since the scene at Muiceron had been miserably unhappy, and could not sleep, asked leave to fulfil the extra duty.
"It is very stormy," said he to his old comrade. "Remain at home, M. Jacques; I will go to Montreux in your place."
"Be off, then," said the keeper, without waiting to be asked twice, "you are young and not rheumatic; and I will smoke my pipe while waiting for you."
Jeannet threw over his shoulders a heavy brown wrapper, and was off in a flash.
When he reached the retreat, he was surprised to see light shining through the two or three little windows under the roof, and a big column of smoke coming out of the chimney. Just at this moment Isidore entered from his side; he made them open the door, by means of a signal well known among men of that stamp; they received him with much honor, and rekindled the fire, which was burning rather low.
Jeannet looked through the opening; judge of his astonishment when he recognized Jeannette's intended, and saw the cordial welcome extended to him by the men, who grasped him by the hand, and made room for him among them. He was dumfounded, almost fancied himself in a dream, but, at the same time, shook with anger, shame, and sorrow.
But this was only the beginning of his surprise. If the inside could easily be seen, the conversation was as plainly heard through the wooden walls, lined with moss; and what he heard froze the blood in his veins. Isidore first spoke, and made an eloquent discourse, which was several times interrupted by the bravos of his audience; in which speech he showed precisely what he was—a pagan, an agrarian, a complete villain, without either faith or justice. He encouraged his friends, the ruffianly crew before him, to proceed to arson and pillage—to murder, if necessary—for the one purpose, said he, of gaining the triumph of the holy cause. This word holy, which he did not scruple to repeat, sounded so horribly in his blasphemous mouth that poor Jean-Louis shuddered while listening to him; not from fear, but from the furious desire to avenge the name of holy, which he had dared to pollute with his tongue.