Sibilet threw him the furtive glance of a man who understood the meaning of the words, and then he withdrew. “I don’t like your Sibilet,” said Blondet, when he had seen the steward leave the house. “That man is playing false.” “Up to this time he has done nothing I could complain of,” said the general. Blondet went off to write letters. He had lost the careless gayety of his first arrival, and was now uneasy and preoccupied; but he had no vague presentiments like those of Madame Michaud; he was, rather, in full expectation of certain foreseen misfortunes. He said to himself, “This affair will come to some bad end; and if the general does not take decisive action and will not abandon a battle-field where he is overwhelmed by numbers there must be a catastrophe; and who knows who will come out safe and sound,--perhaps neither he nor his wife. Good God! that adorable little creature! so devoted, so perfect! how can he expose her thus! He thinks he loves her! Well, I’ll share their danger, and if I can’t save them I’ll suffer with them.” CHAPTER VIII. RURAL VIRTUE That night Marie Tonsard was stationed on the road to Soulanges, sitting on the rail of a culvert waiting for Bonnebault, who had spent the day, as usual, at the Cafe de la Paix. She heard him coming at some distance, and his step told her that he was drunk, and she knew also that he had lost money, for he always sang if he won. “Is that you, Bonnebault?” “Yes, my girl.” “What’s the matter?” “I owe twenty-five francs, and they may wring my neck twenty-five times before I can pay them.” “Well, I know how you can get five hundred,” she said in his ear. “Oh! by killing a man; but I prefer to live.” “Hold your tongue. Vaudoyer will give us five hundred francs if you will let him catch your mother at a tree.” “I’d rather kill a man than sell my mother. There’s your old grandmother; why don’t you sell her?” “If I tried to, my father would get angry and stop the trick.” “That’s true. Well, anyhow, my mother sha’n’t go to prison, poor old thing! She cooks my food and keeps me in clothes, I’m sure I don’t know how. Go to prison,--and through me! I shouldn’t have any bowels within me; no, no! And for fear any one else should sell her, I’ll tell her this very night not to kill any more trees.” “Well, my father may say and do what he likes, but I shall tell him there are five hundred francs to be had, and perhaps he’ll ask my grandmother if she’ll earn them. They’ll never put an old woman seventy-eight years of age in prison,--though, to be sure, she’d be better off there than in her garret.” “Five hundred francs! well, yes; I’ll speak to my mother,” said Bonnebault, “and if it suits her to give ‘em to me, I’ll let her have part to take to prison. She could knit, and amuse herself; and she’d be well fed and lodged, and have less trouble than she has at Conches. Well, to-morrow, my girl, I’ll see you about it; I haven’t time to stop now.”