Chouans -- Fiction; French fiction -- Translations into English
Then he struck the ground sharply with the handle of his heavy
whip close to the commandant’s feet. The impression produced on the
spectators by the laconic harangue of the stranger was like that of
a tom-tom in the midst of tender music. But the word “harangue” is
insufficient to reproduce the hatred, the desires of vengeance expressed
by the haughty gesture of the hand, the brevity of the speech, and
the look of sullen and cool-blooded energy on the countenance of the
speaker. The coarseness and roughness of the man,--chopped out, as it
seemed by an axe, with his rough bark still left on him,--and the stupid
ignorance of his features, made him seem, for the moment, like some
half-savage demigod. He stood stock-still in a prophetic attitude, as
though he were the Genius of Brittany rising from a slumber of three
years, to renew a war in which victory could only be followed by twofold
mourning.
“A pretty fellow this!” thought Hulot; “he looks to me like the emissary
of men who mean to argue with their muskets.”
Having growled these words between his teeth, the commandant cast
his eyes in turn from the man to the valley, from the valley to the
detachment, from the detachment to the steep acclivities on the right of
the road, the ridges of which were covered with the broom and gorse of
Brittany; then he suddenly turned them full on the stranger, whom he
subjected to a mute interrogation, which he ended at last by roughly
demanding, “Where do you come from?”
His eager, piercing eye strove to detect the secrets of that
impenetrable face, which never changed from the vacant, torpid
expression in which a peasant when doing nothing wraps himself.
“From the country of the Gars,” replied the man, without showing any
uneasiness.
“Your name?”
“Marche-a-Terre.”
“Why do you call yourself by your Chouan name in defiance of the law?”
Marche-a-Terre, to use the name he gave to himself, looked at the
commandant with so genuine an air of stupidity that the soldier believed
the man had not understood him.
“Do you belong to the recruits from Fougeres?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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