raimond v. was far too angry to notice the expression of sadness and grief that was depicted on the countenances of the two betrothed. addressing honorat, he said, in a loud voice:

“manjour! do you know, forsooth, what trinquetaille has just informed me? would you believe, my son, that the citizens of la ciotat, those vile swine that have fattened on my bounty and that i have saved from the teeth of barbary dogs, wish to summon me, to-morrow morning, before the overseers of the port, on the matter of our fishery contest! and the abbé pretends that—” then, returning to the door, the baron called out:

“but come on, abbé, where in the devil have you hid yourself?”

the good chaplain showed his tall form among the folds of the portière, for he had been discreetly waiting in the antechamber.

“the abbé,” continued raimond v., “pretends that this fine tribunal is sovereign, if you please,—a tribunal composed of old man cadaou, a fish vender, and some other triton garlic eaters, who hardly own, among them all, one boat or net. manjour! my children, think of my being placed under a ban by those old scoundrels!” “monseigneur,” said abbé mascarolus, “the decision of the overseers of the port on all matters pertaining to the fisheries is supreme, and without appeal. it has been confirmed by the patent letters of henry ii. in 1537, by charles ix. in 1564, and by the king, our count, in 1622. it is one of the oldest customs of the proven?al community. there is no instance of a nobleman, priest, or citizen who has set it aside, and, monseigneur—”

“enough, abbé, enough!” rudely interrupted the baron. “if they have the impudence to summon me, i shall not have the weakness to obey their summons, even when it is made in virtue of all the kings the abbé has just declared to us. as to the patents of the kings, i will oppose titles and privileges conceded by other kings to my house for services rendered to them, as an offset, and my seines and nets will stay where they are, and, by the devil, i will take care that they do stay!”

“monsieur, permit me,” said honorat.

“monsieur? eh! why in the devil do you call me monsieur? am i not your father?” cried the baron, looking at honorat.

honorat cast a distressed look at reine, as if to make her understand that it was due to her that he could no longer call the baron by the tender name of father.

honorat replied, in a voice trembling with emotion, “ah, well, since you wish it, my father—”

“ah, come now, what is the matter, pray?” asked the astonished baron of his daughter. “eh! of course i wish you to call me father, since you are, or will be, my son in a few days.”

reine blushed, looked down, and remained silent. “ah, well, come, speak now, i pray you,” said the old gentleman to honorat. “what have you to tell me?”

“from what i have learned,” answered honorat, “the consuls, excited by the recorder isnard, have manifested some hostility to you, father; do you not fear that the citizens and fishers may join these wicked people, when they see that you refuse to appear, and—”

“i, afraid of those scoundrels! why, i laugh at them as i would at a broken spur,” cried the old gentleman, impetuously. “i have, from father to son, the right to lay my seines and nets in the cove of castrembaou. i will maintain my right, even if all the fishers on the coast, from here to sixfours, oppose it.”

“the fact is, monseigneur,” said the abbé, “that however much they may contest it, you have the right. your titles and privileges of fishery date back to the year 1221, the 14th day of february, under the reign of philippe, king of france, and your claims have been registered by bertrand de cornillon.”

“eh! what do i want with the authority of bertrand de cornillon!” cried the baron. “power makes the right, and i have the force to sustain the right. man-jour! did ever one see such trickery? what rascals! i, who have always helped them, and defended them! ah, just let them come and talk to me!”

“ah, my dear father, they would find you still, as they have always found you, generous and kind and—” “i believe it, certainly; how could i revenge myself on such boobies, if it was not by showing them that a gentleman is of better stock than they?”

“ah! i recognise all that very well, monseigneur,” said the abbé. “if the overseers could only examine your titles—”

“what, examine my titles! i have driven away with my whip a recorder sent by a duke and a peer, a marshal of france, and i must go and submit to the arbitration of those old tar-jackets, who will descend from their wretched boats to mount their tribunal? i must go and take off my hat before those old scoundrels, who the very morning of their audience have cried in the port, ‘buy—buy—soup—fish—buy—buy,’—a people that my family has loaded with benefits. in his last voyage to algiers to redeem captives, did not my brave and good brother, elzear, bring back from barbary five inhabitants of la ciotat? did not my brother, the commander, three years ago, chase away with his black galley five or six chebecs from the coast, because they were interfering with these fishermen, and make them fly before him like a cloud of sparrows before a falcon? and these are the people who accuse me! let them go to the devil! let them send me their recorder, and they will see how i shall receive him. i have just had a new lash put on my whip! but enough of these miseries. give me your arm, my daughter. the weather is fine; we will promenade. come with us, honorat.”

“you will excuse me, father; i am needed at home, and i shall not be able to accompany you.”

“so much the worse. go, then, quick, so as to come back quicker still. i fear nothing from these idiot sheep penned up in la ciotat, but if they make any attempts upon my fishing-nets, i shall need you to keep me from making laramée hang several of them over my nets as scarecrows!”

then the baron, yielding to his changing and impetuous moods, altered his tone, and said, gaily, to the abbé, “now, abbé, if i had some of these insolent rascals hanged, it would be serious, because i do not think you have in all your pharmacy a remedy for hanging.”

“i beg your pardon, monseigneur, but i have been told that if you make the patient, before his execution, drink a great quantity of iron water, which, so to speak, envelopes and saturates the vital principle, and if, on the other hand, the patient will apply to his naked skin some large magnetic stones, or a loadstone, the power of the said stone is such that, in spite of the hanging, he will retain the vital principle in his body, for reason of the irresistible power of attraction possessed by this metal. i would not dare affirm it, but i have been recently told of this remedy.”

“by our lady, that is a wonderful remedy, eh! who informed you of it, abbé?”

“a poor man, who gives very little thought to the welfare of his soul, but who knows many beautiful recipes,—it is the bohemian who healed your greyhound, monseigneur.”

“the singer, manjour! i imagine he occupies himself with the hanged and with hanging; he thinks of his future, you see. each one preaches his own saint, does he not, abbé?—which does not prevent this vagabond being a skilful man. never a better farrier lifted the foot of a hunting-horse than this same bohemian,” added raimond v.

when she heard the vagabond mentioned, reine blushed again, and honorat could scarcely repress a gesture of indignation.

raimond v. continued:

“dame dulceline is enchanted with him; she tells me that, thanks to him, she will have a magnificent cradle for christmas. but you have heard him sing, my daughter, what do you think of it? because i am a bad judge, i am not acquainted with any songs but those the abbé sings, and our old proven?al refrains. is it true that this wanderer has a wonderful voice?”

wishing to put an end to a conversation which, for many reasons, was painful to her, reine replied to her father:

“no doubt, he sings very well. i have scarcely heard him. but if you wish to do so, father, we will take our promenade; it is two o’clock already, and the days are short.”

the baron descended, followed by his daughter. in passing through the court, he saw through the half-open door of the coach-house the ancient and heavy carriage he always used when he attended service in the parochial church of la ciotat, at the solemn festivals of the year, although he had his own chapel at maison-forte.

knowing the kind of antipathy which prevailed against him in the little city, the bold and obstinate old baron took the ingenious idea of braving public opinion by going to church next day with a certain pomp.

reine’s astonishment was unspeakable when she heard her father order laramée to have this, carriage ready next day at midday, the hour of high mass.

to every question of his daughter, the baron replied only by a persistent silence.

now let us return to less important actors.

as she left the apartment of her mistress with luquin, stephanette had disdained to reply to the jealous suspicions of the captain, and had shut herself up in her dignity and her chamber. the windows of this chamber looked out into the court. the young girl saw through the windows the preparation of the old carriage, and, too, luquin trinquetaille, as he walked back and forth in a very agitated state of mind.

was it curiosity to know what extraordinary event induced the baron to go out in this carriage, or was it a desire to obtain an interview with the captain? whatever it was, stephanette descended into the court she first addressed master laramée.

“is monseigneur going out in this carriage?”

“all i know is, that monseigneur ordered me to have this old noah’s ark ready. and, speaking of noah’s ark,” added laramée, with a sneering, satirical air, “if you have an olive-branch in your pretty little rose-coloured beak, you ought to bear it as a sign of peace to that abrave captain you see there measuring the court with his long legs like he was possessed. they say that he is at open war with the bohemian, and the olive-branch is a symbol of peace that would flatter the worthy captain luquin.”

“i did not ask you anything about that, master laramée,” said stephanette, with a dry tone. “where is monseigneur going in that carriage? is it to-day or to-morrow that he wishes to use it?”

“to-morrow will be to-day, and after to-morrow will be to-morrow, mademoiselle,” bluntly replied the majordomo, offended by the imperious manner of stephanette, and he added, between his teeth: “there is a dove transformed into a speckled magpie.”

during this conversation, luquin trinquetaille had approached stephanette. the captain tried to assume a cold, dignified, and disdainful air.

“my dear little one,” said he, in a very careless tone, “do you not think flame colour a very pretty colour?” stephanette turned her head, and, looking behind her, said to luquin:

“your dear little one? if you are talking to jeannette, the laundress, that i see down there, you had better speak louder.”

“i am not speaking to jeannette, do you understand?” cried luquin, losing patience. “jeannette, laundress as she is, would not have the boldness, the effrontery, to give a ribbon to a vagabond bohemian.”

“ah, that is it, is it?” said the mischievous girl. “really, this ribbon has the same effect on you, that a scarlet streamer has on a bull from camargne.”

“if i were a bull from camargue, with double horns, this vagabond would feel the point of them. but no matter, this miscreant shall pay for his insolence; may i die, if i do not cut off his ears and nail them to the mast of my tartan!”

“it is his tongue, rather, that you ought to be jealous of, my poor luquin, for never a troubadour of the good king rené sang more sweetly.”

“i will tear out his tongue, then,—a hundred thousand devils!”

“come, do not do anything absurd, luquin. the bohemian is as courageous and expert as a gendarme.” “many thanks for your pity, mademoiselle, but i do not fight with dogs, i beat them.”

“yes, but sometimes the dog has good teeth which bite very hard, i warn you.”

“curse me, if you are not the most diabolical creature i ever knew!” cried trinquetaille. “i believe, by st. elmo, my patron, that if i were to fight to-morrow in camp with this copper face, you would say: ‘our lady for the bohemian!’”

“without doubt, i would say it.”

“you would say it?”

“why, yes. ought i not to take the part of the weak against the strong,—the small against the great? ought i not at least to encourage the poor man who would dare challenge the formidable, unconquerable arm of the captain of the holy terror to the moors?”

“holy cross! you are jesting, stephanette, and i have no desire for it now.”

“that is very evident.”

“where is this good-for-nothing fellow, this vagabond?”

“do you wish me to go at once and find out? no inquiry would be more agreeable to me.”

“this is too much, you are making sport of me. ah, well, good-bye! all is over, you understand, all is over between us.”

stephanette shrugged her shoulders, and said, “why do you talk nonsense like that?”

“what, nonsense?”

“without a doubt, mere imagination and pretence.”

“pretence! ah, you think so? pretence! ah, well, you will see. do not think you can take me with your cajoleries. i know them,—crocodile tears.”

“do not say that, luquin. i am going to force you to get on your knees before me and ask my pardon for your stupid jealousy.”

“i, on my knees! i, ask your pardon! ah, that would be pretty! ah, ah, i on my knees before you!” “on both knees, if you please.”

“ah, ah, the idea is a pleasant one, on my word!”

“come, come, this very instant,—here, on this spot.”

“mademoiselle, you are crazy.”

“m. luquin, in your own interest, do it now, i pray you.”

“fiddlesticks!”

“take care.”

“ta, la, la, la, la,” said the captain, singing between his teeth, and keeping time by rising on his toes and falling back on his heels.

“once, twice, will you get on your knees and ask my pardon for your stupid jealousy?”

“i would rather, you can understand, strangle myself with my own hands.”

“luquin, you know that when i wish a thing, i wish it. if you refuse what i ask, i will be the one to say good-bye to you. and i will not come back, either, remember that.”

“go, go; perhaps you will meet the bohemian on the way.”

stephanette did not answer a word, but turned around abruptly and walked away.

luquin was very brave for a few moments, then his courage failed him, and at last, seeing that the young girl walked with a firm, resolute step, he followed her and called, in a supplicating voice:

“stephanette!”

the young girl walked faster.

“stephanette, stephanette, do be reasonable, you know very well that i love you.”

stephanette continued to walk.

“a thousand devils! is it possible for me to ask your pardon for my jealousy, when i have seen that—” stephanette quickened her step.

“stephanette, ah, well, come now, in truth you bewitch me. you make me do all that you wish.” stephanette slackened her step a little.

“to come to the point, no, a thousand times no, i am weaker than a child.”

stephanette began to run.

the captain of the holy terror to the moors was obliged to exercise his long, heron-like legs to catch up with her, as he said, with a stifled voice, “ah, well, come now, diabolical creature that you are,—one must do as you wish,—here i am on my knees,—only stop a moment. ah, well, yes, i was wrong. are you satisfied? is it possible to be so base?” murmured luquin, in parenthesis; then he said, aloud: “ah, well, yes, i was wrong to be jealous of—of—but at least stop, will you not? i cannot run after you on my knees. i was wrong, i tell you.”

stephanette slackened her gait a little, then stopped still, and said to luquin, without turning her head:

“on your knees.”

“well, i am; i am on my knees. fortunately for my dignity as a man, that corner of the wall hides me from the eyes of that old gossip of a majordomo,” said luquin to himself.

“repeat after me.”

“yes, but do turn your head, stephanette, so i can see you; that will give me courage.”

“repeat, repeat first; come, say, ‘i was wrong to be jealous of that poor bohemian.’”

“humph! i was wrong to be jealous of—that—humph—of that scoundrel of a bohemian.”

“that is not it,—‘of that poor bohemian.’”

“of that poor bohemian,” repeated luquin, with a profound sigh.

“‘it was a very innocent thing for stephanette to give him a ribbon.’”

“it was—humph—it was a very innocent thing for stephanette—humph!”

these words seemed to strangle the captain, who coughed violently,—“humph, humph!”

“you have a very bad cold, my poor luquin. repeat now: ‘it was a very innocent thing for stephanette to give him a ribbon.’”

“to give him a ribbon.”

“very well; ‘because i have her heart. and all this is only a young girl’s folly, and i know well that she loves nobody but her luquin,’” said stephanette, rapidly.

then, without giving her betrothed time to rise and repeat these sweet words, stephanette turned around quickly while he was still on his knees, and gave him a kiss on the forehead, and then disappeared through a passage in the court before the worthy captain, as delighted as surprised, had been able to take a step.