Then he reached over, caught up a brandy-bottle from the shelf, knocked off the neck with a knife, and, pouring a tumblerful, drank it off at a gasp.
His head came up, his shoulders straightened out, his eyes snapped fire.
He laughed aloud, a sardonic, wild, coarse laugh, and he shivered once or twice violently, in spite of the brandy he had drunk.
"You won't speak to me, eh?
Won't you?
Curse you! Pass me on the other side--so! Look at me.

I am the worst man in the world, eh?
Judas is nothing--no! Ack, what are you, to turn your back on me?
Listen to me! You, there, Muroc, with your charcoal face, who was it walk thirty miles in the dead of winter to bring a doctor to your wife, eh?
She die, but that is no matter--who was it?
It was Luc Pomfrette.

You, Alphonse Durien, who was it drag you out of the bog at the Cote Chaudiere?
It was Luc Pomfrette.

You, Jacques Baby, who was it that lied for you to the Protestant girl at Faribeau?
Just Luc Pomfrette.

You two, Jean and Nicolas Mariban, who was it lent you a hunderd dollars when you lose all your money at cards?
Ha, ha, ha! Only that beast Luc Pomfrette! Mother of Heaven, such a beast is he--eh, Limon Rouge ?--such a beast that used to give your Victorine little silver things, and feed her with bread and sugar and buttermilk pop.