"But--" began Picaut, objecting.
"But?--what do you mean?"
"I mean that, after four hours of such a run as I have just made, my
legs are breaking under me."
"Joseph Picaut," replied Maître Jacques, whose voice grew strident and
metallic, like the blare of a trumpet, "you left your parish and
enrolled yourself in my band. You came here; I did not ask you. Now,
recollect one thing: at the first objection I strike; at the second I
kill."
As he spoke Maître Jacques pulled a pistol from his jacket, grasped it
by the barrel, and struck a vigorous blow with the butt-end on
Picaut's head. The shock was so violent that the peasant, quite
bewildered, came down on one knee. Probably, without the protection of
his hat, which was made of thick felt, his skull would have been
fractured.
"And now, go!" said Maître Jacques, calmly looking to see if the blow
had shaken the powder from the pan.
Without a word Joseph Picaut picked himself up, shook his head, and
went off. Courte-Joie watched him till he was out of sight; then he
looked at Maître Jacques.
"Do you allow such fellows as that in your band?" he said.
"Yes; don't speak of it!"
"Have you had him long?"
"No, only a few hours."
"Bad recruit for you."
"I don't say that exactly. He is a brave _gars_, like his father, whom
I knew well; only, he has to be taught to obey like my fellows, and to
get used to the ways of the burrow. He'll improve; he'll improve."
"Oh, I don't doubt it! You have a wonderful way of educating them."
"God bless me! I've been at it a good while! But," continued Maître
Jacques, "it is time for my round of inspection, and I shall have to
leave you, my poor Courte-Joie. It is understood, isn't it, that Jean
Oullier's friends are welcome to the burrow. As for the division
commander, he shall have his answer to-night. You are sure that is all
_gars_ Oullier told you to say?"
"Yes."
"Rummage your memory."
"I am sure that is all."
"Very well. If the burrow suits him, he shall have it,--he and his
friends. I don't bother myself about my _gars_; those scamps, they are
like mice,--they have more than one hole. Good-bye for the present,
_gars_ Aubin; and while you are waiting, take a bite. I see them
making ready for a stew down there."
Maître Jacques descended into what he called his burrow. Then he came
out a moment later, armed with a carbine, the priming of which he
examined with the utmost care; after which he disappeared among the
trees.
The open was now very animated, and presented a most picturesque
effect. A large fire had been lighted in the burrow, and the glare
coming through the trap illumined the trees and bushes with fantastic
gleams. The supper of the men, who were scattered about the open, was
cooking at it, while the men waited. Some, on their knees, were
telling their beads; others, sitting down, sang in low tones those
national songs whose plaintive, long-drawn melodies were so in keeping
with the character of the landscape. Two Bretons, lying on their
stomachs at the mouth of the burrow, were betting, by means of two
bones of different shades of color, for the possession of sundry
copper coins, while another _gars_ (who, from his pallid face and
shrivelled skin,--shrivelled with fever,--was obviously a dweller
among the marshes) employed himself, without much success, in cleaning
a thick coat of rust from the barrel and match-lock of an old carbine.
Aubin Courte-Joie, accustomed to such scenes, paid no attention to the
one before him. Trigaud had made him a sort of couch with leaves, and
he was now seated on this improvised mattress, smoking his pipe as
tranquilly as if in his tavern at Montaigu.
Suddenly he fancied he heard in the far distance the well-known
cry of alarm,--the cry of the screech-owl,--but modulated in a certain
long-drawn-out way which indicated danger. Courte-Joie whistled softly
to warn the men about him to keep silence and listen; but almost at
the same instant a shot echoed from a place about a thousand steps
distant.
In the twinkling of an eye the water-pails, standing ready for this
very use, had put out the fire; the roof was lowered, the trap closed,
and Maître Jacques's belligerents, among them Courte-Joie, whom his
physical partner remounted on his shoulders, were scattering in every
direction among the trees, where they awaited the next signal from
their leader.