then he slipped behind the bushes, like an actor darting behind the
scenes as the curtain rises on a tragedy.

"Do you know, Merle," said Gerard as they reached the chateau, "that
this place looks to me like a mousetrap?"

"So I think," said the captain, anxiously.

The two officers hastened to post sentinels to guard the gate and the
causeway; then they examined with great distrust the precipitous banks
of the lakes and the surroundings of the chateau.

"Pooh!" said Merle, "we must do one of two things: either trust
ourselves in this barrack with perfect confidence, or else not enter it
at all."

"Come, let's go in," replied Gerard.

The soldiers, released at the word of command, hastened to stack their
muskets in conical sheaves, and to form a sort of line before the litter
of straw, in the middle of which was the promised barrel of cider.
They then divided into groups, to whom two peasants began to distribute
butter and rye-bread. The marquis appeared in the portico to welcome
the officers and take them to the salon. As Gerard went up the steps he
looked at both ends of the portico, where some venerable larches spread
their black branches; and he called up Clef-des-Coeurs and Beau-Pied.

"You will each reconnoitre the gardens and search the bushes, and post a
sentry before your line."

"May we light our fire before starting, adjutant?" asked
Clef-des-Coeurs.

Gerard nodded.

"There! you see, Clef-des-Coeurs," said Beau-Pied, "the adjutant's
wrong to run himself into this wasp's-nest. If Hulot was in command we
shouldn't be cornered here--in a saucepan!"

"What a stupid you are!" replied Clef-des-Coeurs, "haven't you guessed,
you knave of tricks, that this is the home of the beauty our jovial
Merle has been whistling round? He'll marry her to a certainty--that's
as clear as a well-rubbed bayonet. A woman like that will do honor to
the brigade."

"True for you," replied Beau-Pied, "and you may add that she gives
pretty good cider--but I can't drink it in peace till I know what's
behind those devilish hedges. I always remember poor Larose and
Vieux-Chapeau rolling down the ditch at La Pelerine. I shall recollect
Larose's queue to the end of my days; it went hammering down like the
knocker of a front door."

"Beau-Pied, my friend; you have too much imagination for a soldier; you
ought to be making songs at the national Institute."

"If I've too much imagination," retorted Beau-Pied, "you haven't any;