At first he smiled, as he led her forward, and his eyes entreated hers; but she remained mute and cold, and her activity appeared but to increase. Marcel, piqued and annoyed, resolved to conquer her; and the vain lover who would rather gain one kiss before all the world than twenty granted in secret, exerts all his powers, leaps, hurries, whirls, and, to fatigue her, would willingly give his sabre, his cap, his worsted embroidery,--aye, if it had been all of gold instead! But when the game is displeasing, the maiden is strong to resist. Far from giving in, Françonnette confuses, tires him, till his breath is gone; passion exhausts him as much as her swiftness; his face becomes crimson--he is ready to fall--he gives in. On goes the dance--Pascal stands in his place; he has scarcely made two steps, and changed sides, when his pretty partner smiles, reels, pauses; she is tired out, and she turns her blushing cheek to him--oh! she did not wait long for his kiss. Instantly a shout is heard--clapping of hands in all directions: all plaudits for Pascal, who stands confused and abashed. What a scene for the young soldier, who loved in good truth!--he shuddered as he saw the kiss given; he rose, and drew himself up to his full height. "Thou hast replaced me too quickly, peasant!" cried he, in a thundering voice; and, to enforce his insulting words, he struck the young man a violent blow. Heavens! how ready is pain to usurp the place of the sweetest pleasure! A kiss and a blow! glory and shame! light and darkness! fire and ice! life and death! heaven and hell! All this shook the mind of Pascal; but when a man is insulted, he can revenge himself, though he is neither gentleman nor soldier. No. Look upon him! the tempest is not more fearful. His eyes dart lightning--thunder is in his voice--he raises his arm, and it descends upon Marcel like a bolt. In vain the soldier seeks to draw his sword--stands on his guard; Pascal, whose size seems to increase with fury, seizes him by his waist, strains him in his grasp, and, with a fierce gripe, forces him to the ground, where he dashes him, crushed and senseless. "Hold!--the peasant grants your life!" cried Pascal, as he stood over him. "Kill him!--you are wounded--you are all blood," exclaimed a hundred voices. Pascal's blood flowed, he knew not how. "It is enough," he returned; "I pardon him now. The wicked man when defeated excites only pity." "No, no--kill him, tear him to pieces," howled the enraged people. "Back, peasants, back!" cried a knight, spurring forward, to whom every one gave way. It was Montluc, attracted to the spot by the tumult, as he was passing with the Baron of Roquefort.