lle de Verneuil's
look and shudder warned him of danger, and as soon as the spy had
entered the room the Chouan raised his voice to an ear-splitting tone.

"Ha, ha!" he said to Francine, "I tell you there's Breton butter _and_
Breton butter. You want the Gibarry kind, and you won't give more than
eleven sous a pound; then why did you send me to fetch it? It is good
butter that," he added, uncovering the basket to show the pats which
Barbette had made. "You ought to be fair, my good lady, and pay one sou
more."

His hollow voice betrayed no emotion, and his green eyes, shaded by
thick gray eyebrows, bore Corentin's piercing glance without flinching.

"Nonsense, my good man, you are not here to sell butter; you are talking
to a lady who never bargained for a thing in her life. The trade you
run, old fellow, will shorten you by a head in a very few days"; and
Corentin, with a friendly tap on the man's shoulder, added, "you can't
keep up being a spy of the Blues and a spy of the Chouans very long."

Galope-Chopine needed all his presence of mind to subdue his rage,
and not deny the accusation which his avarice had made a just one. He
contented himself with saying:--

"Monsieur is making game of me."

Corentin turned his back on the Chouan, but, while bowing to
Mademoiselle de Verneuil, whose heart stood still, he watched him in
the mirror behind her. Galope-Chopine, unaware of this, gave a glance
to Francine, to which she replied by pointing to the door, and saying,
"Come with me, my man, and we will settle the matter between us."

Nothing escaped Corentin, neither the fear which Mademoiselle de
Verneuil could not conceal under a smile, nor her color and the
contraction of her features, nor the Chouan's sign and Francine's reply;
he had seen all. Convinced that Galope-Chopine was sent by the marquis,
he caught the man by the long hairs of his goatskin as he was leaving
the room, turned him round to face him, and said with a keen look:
"Where do you live, my man? I want butter, too."

"My good monsieur," said the Chouan, "all Fougeres knows where I live. I
am--"

"Corentin!" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Verneuil, interrupting
Galope-Chopine. "Why do you come here at this time of day? I am scarcely
dressed. Let that peasant alone; he does not understand your tricks any
more than I understand the motive of them. You can go, my man."

Galope-Chopine hesitated a moment. The indecision, real or feigned, of
the poor devil