"It will be a bad business for you in the end; government will interfere." "Then we, poor unfortunates, must give up the ghost!" said Mam Tonsard, offering him a glass of brandy on a saucer.
"The unfortunate may all die, yet they'll never be lacking in the land," said Fourchon, sententiously.
"You do great damage to the woods," retorted the sheriff.
"Now don't believe that, Monsieur Brunet," said Mam Tonsard; "they make such a fuss about a few miserable fagots!" "We didn't crush the rich low enough during the Revolution, that's what's the trouble," said Tonsard.
Just then a horrible, and quite incomprehensible noise was heard.

It seemed to be a rush of hurried feet, accompanied with a rattle of arms, half-drowned by the rustling of leaves, the dragging of branches, and the sound of still more hasty feet.

Two voices, as different as the two footsteps, were venting noisy exclamations.

Everybody inside the inn guessed at once that a man was pursuing a woman; but why?
The uncertainty did not last long.
"It is mother!" said Tonsard, jumping up; "I know her shriek." Then suddenly, rushing up the broken steps of the Grand-I-Vert by a last effort that can be made only by the sinews of smugglers, old Mother Tonsard fell flat on the floor in the middle of the room.

The immense mass of wood she carried on her head made a terrible noise as it crashed against the top of the door and then upon the ground.