Hearing the shot, Marche-a-Terre rushed in the direction where he had left Francine, and found her praying on her knees, with clasped hands, beside the poor captain, whose murder had deeply horrified her. “Run to your mistress,” said the Chouan; “she is saved.” He ran himself to fetch the postilion, returning with all speed, and, as he repassed Merle’s body, he noticed the Gars’ glove, which was still convulsively clasped in the dead hand. “Oho!” he cried. “Pille-Miche has blundered horribly--he won’t live to spend his crowns.” He snatched up the glove and said to Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who was already in the coach with Francine: “Here, take this glove. If any of our men attack you on the road, call out ‘Ho, the Gars!’ show the glove, and no harm can happen to you. Francine,” he said, turning towards her and seizing her violently, “you and I are quits with that woman; come with me and let the devil have her.” “You can’t ask me to abandon her just at this moment!” cried Francine, in distress. Marche-a-Terre scratched his ear and forehead, then he raised his head, and his mistress saw the ferocious expression of his eyes. “You are right,” he said; “I leave you with her one week; if at the end of that time you don’t come with me--” he did not finish the sentence, but he slapped the muzzle of his gun with the flat of his hand. After making the gesture of taking aim at her, he disappeared, without waiting for her reply. No sooner was he gone than a voice, which seemed to issue from the lake, called, in a muffled tone: “Madame, madame!” The postilion and the two women shuddered, for several corpses were floating near them. A Blue, hidden behind a tree, cautiously appeared. “Let me get up behind the coach, or I’m a dead man. That damned cider which Clef-des-Coeurs would stop to drink cost more than a pint of blood. If he had done as I did, and made his round, our poor comrades there wouldn’t be floating dead in the pond.” * * * * * While these events were taking place outside the chateau, the leaders sent by the Vendeans and those of the Chouans were holding a council of war, with their glasses in their hands, under the presidency of the Marquis de Montauran. Frequent libations of Bordeaux animated the discussion, which, however, became more serious and important at the end of the meal. After the general plan of military operations had been decided on, the Royalists drank to the health of the Bourbons. It was at that moment that the shot which killed Merle was heard, like an echo of the disastrous war which these gay and noble conspirators were about to make against the Republic. Madame du Gua quivered with pleasure at the thought that she was freed from her rival; the guests looked at each other in silence; the marquis rose from the table and went out.