“Take care yourself, my child. Do your duty and be circumspect is all I ask. But no more coquetry, you understand, or----” “Or--you will kill me, perhaps. Well, then, do it. Kill me, if you will.” “Madame,” said he, solemnly, “I do not come from a family of assassins.” Catherine’s face turned livid. She fell heavily to the floor, and Savin could have bitten his tongue out for his cruel words. [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. THE STAMPEDE. Three weeks later. The annual cattle show at St. Benoit is about to open. St. Benoit is the great region for fine cattle in France. From miles around the farmers and peasants assemble to exhibit the beasts they have fattened to sell in Paris at a reasonable profit. Every road is crowded. Oxen, cows, and sheep fill the thoroughfares and byways, and the quaint rural habitations are gayly decorated with flags and streamers. Not a drop of rain has fallen since the famous day of the raspberry _fête_, and each morning the sun has risen in the east with more scorching radiance. The large hamlet of St. Benoit, perfectly suited to such a fair, is crowded in spite of its size. As the sun climbs above the horizon, the cattle accumulate in greater numbers. The peasants are in the best of good spirits, and talk is heard and laughter rings on all sides. Perhaps the buyers are treated with rather more deference than the sellers, but those who come neither to buy nor to sell address themselves to the various schemes of pleasure. The fair is for everybody, and, at all events, it offers an admirable opportunity to “eat, drink, and be merry.” The two public houses of the place are not without guests, and the respective landlords are gathering in a goodly supply of the _sine qua non_ of life and not stopping to count the centimes. More than one young rascal, with nothing to sell and no money to buy, finds his way to the village inn and does not leave there thirsty. Among this class are two men who make more noise than all the rest, and who await the inevitable fistic encounter with interest. One of them is Andoche the blacksmith, an expert in his trade, but still more skilful in spoiling wine by drinking it. As he sits just outside the door of the public house, at one of the tables, he appears ill at ease. In the rural portions of France people do not like to drink conspicuously, but in Paris it is different. The peasant, conscious that he might better spend his money in some other direction, prefers to take his libations under cover or behind a screen. To get tipsy is all well enough, he thinks; but it is not necessary that the whole world should witness the process from start to finish.