Then, leaving the little man thoroughly bewildered, Rigou got into the carriole beside Marie Tonsard.

“Well, you little viper,” he said, taking her by the arm when he had fastened the reins to a hook in front of the leathern apron which closed the carriole and the horse had started on a trot, “do you think you can keep Bonnebault by giving way to such violence?  If you were a wise girl you would promote his marriage with that hogshead of stupidity and take your revenge afterwards.”

Marie could not help smiling as she answered:—­

“Ah, how bad you are! you are the master of us all in wickedness.”

“Listen to me, Marie; I like the peasants, but it won’t do for any one of you to come between my teeth and a mouthful of game.  Your brother Nicolas, as Aglae said, is after La Pechina.  That must not be; I protect her, that girl.  She is to be my heiress for thirty thousand francs, and I intend to marry her well.  I know that Nicolas, helped by your sister Catherine, came near killing the little thing this morning.  You are to see your brother and sister at once, and say to them:  ’If you let La Pechina alone, Pere Rigou will save Nicolas from the conscription.’”

“You are the devil incarnate!” cried Marie.  “They do say you’ve signed a compact with him.  Is that true?”

“Yes,” replied Rigou, gravely.

“I heard it, but I didn’t believe it.”

“He has guaranteed that no attacks aimed at me shall hurt me; that I shall never be robbed; that I shall live a hundred years and succeed in everything I undertake, and be as young to the day of my death as a two-year old cockerel—­”

“Well, if that’s so,” said Marie, “it must be devilishly easy for you to save my brother from the conscription—­”

“If he chooses, that’s to say.  He’ll have to lose a finger,” returned Rigou.  “I’ll tell him how.”

“Look out, you are taking the upper road!” exclaimed Marie.

“I never go by the lower at night,” said the ex-monk.

“On account of the cross?” said Marie, naively.

“That’s it, sly-boots,” replied her diabolical companion.

They had reached a spot where the high-road cuts through a slight elevation of ground, making on each side of it a rather steep slope, such as we often see on the mail-roads of France.  At the end of this little gorge, which is about a hundred feet long, the roads to Ronquerolles and to Cerneux meet and form an open space, in the centre of which stands a cross.  From either slope a man could aim at a victim and kill him at close quarters, with all the more ease because the little hill is covered with vines, and the evil-doer could lie in ambush among the briers and brambles that overgrow them.  We can readily imagine why the usurer did not take that road after dark.  The Thune flows round the little hill; and the place is called the Close of the Cross.  No spot was ever more adapted for revenge or murder, for the road to Ronquerolles continues to the bridge over the Avonne in front of the pavilion of the Rendezvous, while that to Cerneux leads off above the mail-road; so that between the four roads,—­to Les Aigues, Ville-aux-Fayes, Ronquerolles, and Cerneux,—­a murderer could choose his line of retreat and leave his pursuers in uncertainty.