“They must have fought in the field next to the Berandiere,” said the boy.
The child ran to the place where the fighting had, as he said, taken place. In the moonlight he found the heap of bodies, but his father was not among them, and he came back whistling joyously, having picked up several five-franc pieces trampled in the mud and overlooked by the victors. His mother was sitting on a stool beside the fire, employed in spinning flax. He made a negative sign to her, and then, ten o’clock having struck from the tower of Saint-Leonard, he went to bed, muttering a prayer to the holy Virgin of Auray. At dawn, Barbette, who had not closed her eyes, gave a cry of joy, as she heard in the distance a sound she knew well of hobnailed shoes, and soon after Galope-Chopine’s scowling face presented itself.
“Thanks to Saint-Labre,” he said, “to whom I owe a candle, the Gars is safe. Don’t forget that we now owe three candles to the saint.”
He seized a beaker of cider and emptied it at a draught without drawing breath. When his wife had served his soup and taken his gun and he himself was seated on the wooden bench, he said, looking at the fire: “I can’t make out how the Blues got here. The fighting was at Florigny. Who the devil could have told them that the Gars was in our house; no one knew it but he and the handsome garce and we--”
“They made me believe they were the gars of Saint-Georges,” she said, trembling, “it was I who told them the Gars was here.”
Galope-Chopine turned pale himself and dropped his porringer on the table.
“I sent the boy to warn you,” said Barbette, frightened, “didn’t you meet him?”
The Chouan rose and struck his wife so violently that she dropped, pale as death, upon the bed.
“You cursed woman,” he said, “you have killed me!” Then seized with remorse, he took her in his arms. “Barbette!” he cried, “Barbette!--Holy Virgin, my hand was too heavy!”
“Do you think,” she said, opening her eyes, “that Marche-a-Terre will hear of it?”
“The Gars will certainly inquire who betrayed him.”
“Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche were both at Florigny.”
“If they touch a hair of your head,” she cried, “I’ll rinse their glasses with vinegar.”
“Ah! I can’t eat,” said Galope-Chopine, anxiously.