, Pierre," replied Francine, inspired by the
instinct which makes a woman despotic when not oppressed. She drew back
haughtily, after enjoying the Chouan's surprise; but she compensated for
the harshness of her words by the softness of her glance, saying, as she
once more approached him: "Pierre, that lady was talking to you about my
young mistress, wasn't she?"

Marche-a-Terre was silent; his face struggled, like the dawn, between
clouds and light. He looked in turn at Francine, at the whip he
had dropped, and at the chain, which seemed to have as powerful an
attraction for him as the Breton girl herself. Then, as if to put a stop
to his own uneasiness, he picked up his whip and still kept silence.

"Well, it is easy to see that that lady told you to kill my mistress,"
resumed Francine, who knew the faithful discretion of the peasant, and
wished to relieve his scruples.

Marche-a-Terre lowered his head significantly. To the Cottin girl that
was answer enough.

"Very good, Pierre," she said; "if any evil happens to her, if a hair
of her head is injured, you and I will have seen each other for the last
time; for I shall be in heaven, and you will go to hell."

The possessed of devils whom the Church in former days used to exorcise
with great pomp were not more shaken and agitated than Marche-a-Terre
at this prophecy, uttered with a conviction that gave it certainty.
His glance, which at first had a character of savage tenderness,
counteracted by a fanaticism as powerful in his soul as love, suddenly
became surly, as he felt the imperious manner of the girl he had long
since chosen. Francine interpreted his silence in her own way.

"Won't you do anything for my sake?" she said in a tone of reproach.

At these words the Chouan cast a glance at his mistress from eyes that
were black as a crow's wing.

"Are you free?" he asked in a growl that Francine alone could have
understood.

"Should I be here if I were not?" she replied indignantly. "But you,
what are you doing here? Still playing bandit, still roaming the country
like a mad dog wanting to bite. Oh! Pierre, if you were wise, you would
come with me. This beautiful young lady, who, I ought to tell you, was
nursed when a baby in our home, has taken care of me. I have two hundred
francs a year from a good investment. And Mademoiselle has bought me my
uncle Thomas's big house for fifteen hundred francs, and I have saved
two thousand beside."

But her smiles and