One of the guard pecked at his ribs with his boot. “_Pomme de chou!_” he grunted, “have you no other song to sing but that?” But Crépin was looking extremely grave and virtuous. “The prisoner is in no state to be examined,” he said. “Place him under lock and key, with food and drink; and I will put him to the question later.” CHAPTER IV. THE CHÂTEAU DES PIERRETTES. “_Nous y voici!_” The carriage pulled back with a jerk, so that the prisoner Michel, who sat opposite us, was almost thrown into our laps. One of our grimy escort appeared at the window. “Dog of a thief!” he growled. “Is this the turning?” The other _sacréd_ below his breath and nodded sullenly. A vast chestnut (the thick of its butt must have been thirty feet in circumference) stood at the entrance to a narrow lane. Turning, with a worrying of wheels, down the latter, we continued our journey. Southwards from Coutras we had broken into a _plat_ of country very wild and sterile; but now we were amongst trees again--oak, chestnut, and walnut--that thronged the damp hollows and flung themselves over the low hills in irresistible battalions. Suddenly Michel bent forward and touched my companion’s knee menacingly. The rascal was near restored to himself, and his lowering eyes were full of gloom. “The treasure, monsieur,” he said; “is that the condition of my liberty?” “I have said--discover it to me and thou shalt go free.” “But I, monsieur, I also must make a condition.” Crépin stared. The man bent still more earnestly forward. “Mademoiselle Carinne----” “The niece of De Lâge----?” “She must be considered--respected. I will not have her insulted with a look.” “What now, Michel?” “Oh, monsieur! you may do as you will with the old, hard man; but her--her----” “And is it for the lady’s sake thou hast forborne hitherto to appropriate this treasure, the hiding-place of which thou wilt buy thy life by revealing?” “It is so. I have driven a desperate trade, starving often with this knowledge in my breast.” “But why?” “How can I tell? I have known her from a child. Once she struck me that I killed a cheeping wolf-cub she had brought from the snow; and then she was sorry and kissed the little stupid bruise; and I swore my arm should rot before it lost the will to protect her.” “I will do my best.” “But that is not enough. My God! if I were to sacrifice mademoiselle’s _dot_ without purpose.” “The purpose is thy life.” “That were nothing were she dishonoured.” I put in a serene word-- “Yet it seems you would condemn her to poverty to save your skin?” “That is different. I should have life; and life means many things--the power, possibly, to influence her fortunes; at least the wash of wine again in one’s dusty throat.” “Michel,” I said, “I must applaud you for a capital rogue.” He stared at me sombrely, muttered, “_Je suis ce que je suis_,” and sank back in his corner.