Merle’s presence was inexplicable to the silent spectators of this tragedy; they looked at him in astonishment and their eyes questioned each other. Merle saw their amazement, and, true to his native character, he said, with a smile: “Gentlemen, you will scarcely refuse a glass of wine to a man who is about to make his last journey.” It was just as the company had calmed down under the influence of these words, said with a true French carelessness which pleased the Vendeans, that Montauran returned, his face pale, his eyes fixed. “Now you shall see,” said Merle, “how death can make men lively.” “Ah!” said the marquis, with a gesture as if suddenly awaking, “here you are, my dear councillor of war,” and he passed him a bottle of _vin de Grave_. “Oh, thanks, citizen marquis,” replied Merle. “Now I can divert myself.” At this sally Madame du Gua turned to the other guests with a smile, saying, “Let us spare him the dessert.” “That is a very cruel vengeance, madame,” he said. “You forget my murdered friend who is waiting for me; I never miss an appointment.” “Captain,” said the marquis, throwing him his glove, “you are free; that’s your passport. The Chasseurs du Roi know that they must not kill all the game.” “So much the better for me!” replied Merle, “but you are making a mistake; we shall come to close quarters before long, and I’ll not let you off. Though your head can never pay for Gerard’s, I want it and I shall have it. Adieu. I could drink with my own assassins, but I cannot stay with those of my friend”; and he disappeared, leaving the guests astonished at his coolness. “Well, gentlemen, what do you think of the lawyers and surgeons and bailiffs who manage the Republic,” said the Gars, coldly. “God’s-death! marquis,” replied the Comte de Bauvan; “they have shocking manners; that fellow presumed to be impertinent, it seems to me.” The captain’s hasty retreat had a motive. The despised, humiliated woman, who was even then, perhaps, being put to death, had so won upon him during the scene of her degradation that he said to himself, as he left the room, “If she is a prostitute, she is not an ordinary one, and I’ll marry her.” He felt so sure of being able to rescue her from the savages that his first thought, when his own life was given to him, was to save hers. Unhappily, when he reached the portico, he found the courtyard deserted. He looked about him, listened to the silence, and could hear nothing but the distant shouts and laughter of the Chouans, who were drinking in the gardens and dividing their booty. He turned the corner to the fatal wing before which his men had been shot, and from there he could distinguish, by the feeble light of a few stray lanterns, the different groups of the Chasseurs du Roi. Neither Pille-Miche, nor Marche-a-Terre, nor the girl were visible; but he felt himself gently pulled by the flap of his uniform, and, turning round, saw Francine on her knees. “Where is she?” he asked.