“Then you love her too much, and she shall die,” said Marche-a-Terre. “Pierre! if we are rich and happy we owe it all to her; but, whether or no, you promised me to save her.” “Well, I’ll try; but you must stay here, and don’t move.” Francine at once let go his arm, and waited in horrible suspense in the courtyard where Merle found her. Meantime Marche-a-Terre joined his comrade at the moment when the latter, after dragging his victim to the barn, was compelling her to get into the coach. Pille-Miche called to him to help in pulling out the vehicle. “What are you going to do with all that?” asked Marche-a-Terre. “The Grande Garce gave me the woman, and all that belongs to her is mine.” “The coach will put a sou or two in your pocket; but as for the woman, she’ll scratch your eyes out like a cat.” Pille-Miche burst into a roar of laughter. “Then I’ll tie her up and take her home,” he answered. “Very good; suppose we harness the horses,” said Marche-a-Terre. A few moments later Marche-a-Terre, who had left his comrade mounting guard over his prey, led the coach from the stable to the causeway, where Pille-Miche got into it beside Mademoiselle de Verneuil, not perceiving that she was on the point of making a spring into the lake. “I say, Pille-Miche!” cried Marche-a-Terre. “What!” “I’ll buy all your booty.” “Are you joking?” asked the other, catching his prisoner by the petticoat, as a butcher catches a calf that is trying to escape him. “Let me see her, and I’ll set a price.” The unfortunate creature was made to leave the coach and stand between the two Chouans, who each held a hand and looked at her as the Elders must have looked at Susannah. “Will you take thirty francs in good coin?” said Marche-a-Terre, with a groan. “Really?” “Done?” said Marche-a-Terre, holding out his hand. “Yes, done; I can get plenty of Breton girls for that, and choice morsels, too. But the coach; whose is that?” asked Pille-Miche, beginning to reflect upon his bargain. “Mine!” cried Marche-a-Terre, in a terrible tone of voice, which showed the sort of superiority his ferocious character gave him over his companions. “But suppose there’s money in the coach?” “Didn’t you say, ‘Done’?” “Yes, I said, ‘Done.’” “Very good; then go and fetch the postilion who is gagged in the stable over there.” “But if there’s money in the--” “Is there any?” asked Marche-a-Terre, roughly, shaking Marie by the arm. “Yes, about a hundred crowns.” The two Chouans looked at each other. “Well, well, friend,” said Pille-Miche, “we won’t quarrel for a female Blue; let’s pitch her into the lake with a stone around her neck, and divide the money.” “I’ll give you that money as my share in d’Orgemont’s ransom,” said Marche-a-Terre, smothering a groan, caused by such sacrifice. Pille-Miche uttered a sort of hoarse cry as he started to find the postilion, and his glee brought death to Merle, whom he met on his way.