“Politics, always politics,” replied Vermichel, who seemed accustomed to such pleasantries.

“Ah! business is bad in Blangy, and there’ll be notes to protest, and writs to issue,” remarked Pere Fourchon, filling a glass for his friend.

“That ape of ours is right behind me,” replied Vermichel, with a backward gesture.

In workmen’s slang “ape” meant master.  The word belonged to the dictionary of the worthy pair.

“What’s Monsieur Brunet coming bothering about here?” asked Tonsard.

“Hey, by the powers, you folks!” said Vermichel, “you’ve brought him in for the last three years more than you are worth.  Ha! that master at Les Aigues, he has his eye upon you; he’ll punch you in the ribs; he’s after you, the Shopman!  Brunet says, if there were three such landlords in the valley his fortune would be made.”

“What new harm are they going to do to the poor?” asked Marie.

“A pretty wise thing for themselves,” replied Vermichel.  “Faith! you’ll have to give in, in the end.  How can you help it?  They’ve got the power.  For the last two years haven’t they had three foresters and a horse-patrol, all as active as ants, and a field-keeper who is a terror?  Besides, the gendarmerie is ready to do their dirty work at any time.  They’ll crush you—­”

“Bah!” said Tonsard, “we are too flat.  That which can’t be crushed isn’t the trees, it’s ground.”

“Don’t you trust to that,” said Fourchon to his son-in-law; “you own property.”

“Those rich folks must love you,” continued Vermichel, “for they think of nothing else from morning till night!  They are saying to themselves now like this:  ’Their cattle eat up our pastures; we’ll seize their cattle; they can’t eat grass themselves.’  You’ve all been condemned, the warrants are out, and they have told our ape to take your cows.  We are to begin this morning at Conches by seizing old mother Bonnebault’s cow and Godin’s cow and Mitant’s cow.”

The moment the name of Bonnebault was mentioned, Marie, who was in love with the old woman’s grandson, sprang into the vineyard with a nod to her father and mother.  She slipped like an eel through a break in the hedge, and was off on the way to Conches with the speed of a hunted hare.

“They’ll do so much,” remarked Tonsard, tranquilly, “that they’ll get their bones broken; and that will be a pity, for their mothers can’t make them any new ones.”

“Well, perhaps so,” said old Fourchon, “but see here, Vermichel, I can’t go with you for an hour or more, for I have important business at the chateau.”

“More important than serving three warrants at five sous each?  ’You shouldn’t spit into the vintage,’ as Father Noah says.”

“I tell you, Vermichel, that my business requires me to go to the chateau des Aigues,” repeated the old man, with an air of laughable self-importance.

“And anyhow,” said Mam Tonsard, “my father had better keep out of the way.  Do you really mean to find the cows?”