“Ah! ah!” cried the lady. “Fouche means to send women against you, does he? I shall be ready for them,” she added in a deeper tone of voice and after a slight pause. * * * * * At a distance of three or four gunshots from the plateau, now abandoned, a little scene was taking place which was not uncommon in those days on the high-roads. After leaving the little village of La Pelerine, Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre again stopped the turgotine at a dip in the road. Coupiau got off his seat after making a faint resistance. The silent traveller, extracted from his hiding place by the two Chouans, found himself on his knees in a furze bush. “Who are you?” asked Marche-a-Terre in a threatening voice. The traveller kept silence until Pille-Miche put the question again and enforced it with the butt end of his gun. “I am Jacques Pinaud,” he replied, with a glance at Coupiau; “a poor linen-draper.” Coupiau made a sign in the negative, not considering it an infraction of his promise to Saint Anne. The sign enlightened Pille-Miche, who took aim at the luckless traveller, while Marche-a-Terre laid before him categorically a terrible ultimatum. “You are too fat to be poor. If you make me ask you your name again, here’s my friend Pille-Miche, who will obtain the gratitude and good-will of your heirs in a second. Who are you?” he added, after a pause. “I am d’Orgemont, of Fougeres.” “Ah! ah!” cried the two Chouans. “I didn’t tell your name, Monsieur d’Orgemont,” said Coupiau. “The Holy Virgin is my witness that I did my best to protect you.” “Inasmuch as you are Monsieur d’Orgemont, of Fougeres,” said Marche-a-Terre, with an air of ironical respect, “we shall let you go in peace. Only, as you are neither a good Chouan nor a true Blue (thought it was you who bought the property of the Abbey de Juvigny), you will pay us three hundred crowns of six francs each for your ransom. Neutrality is worth that, at least.” “Three hundred crowns of six francs each!” chorussed the luckless banker, Pille-Miche, and Coupiau, in three different tones. “Alas, my good friend,” continued d’Orgemont, “I’m a ruined man. The last forced loan of that devilish Republic for a hundred millions sucked me dry, taxed as I was already.” “How much did your Republic get out of you?” “A thousand crowns, my dear man,” replied the banker, with a piteous air, hoping for a reduction. “If your Republic gets forced loans out of you for such big sums as that you must see that you would do better with us; our government would cost you less. Three hundred crowns, do you call that dear for your skin?” “Where am I to get them?” “Out of your strong-box,” said Pille-Miche; “and mind that the money is forthcoming, or we’ll singe you still.” “How am I to pay it to you?” asked d’Orgemont. “Your country-house at Fougeres is not far from Gibarry’s farm where my cousin Galope-Chopine, otherwise called Cibot, lives. You can pay the money to him,” said Pille-Miche.