As she approached the château, she heard the furious barking of the two dogs, and on entering the gates she saw the cause. M. Berthier had wheeled an easy chair into the yard, and was seated in it at a safe distance from the hounds, armed with a long-lashed carriage whip, which he whirled above his head, and brought down now on Poulet and then on Pigeon, driving the beasts frantic with pain and rage. He had thrown a large piece of raw meat just within their reach, and he kept them from it by skilful strokes across the nose and paws. The dogs were ravenous, and they flew upon the piece of flesh, only to recoil with howls of pain. Pigeon had bounded to the top of his kennel, and was dancing with torture, having received a cutting stroke across his fore paws; then, seeing Poulet making towards the meat, and fearful lest he should be robbed of his share, he leaped down from his perch and flew after his brother, only to be nearly overthrown by Poulet, as he started back before a sweep of the lash. Madame Berthier looked scornfully towards her husband. ‘Ah, ha! my leaden lady!’ cried he, as she drew near; ‘you have been taking a walk; there is nothing to be compared with fresh air and exercise for heightening and refining the complexion. You are right, madame, to wear a veil; the sun freckles.’ He had recovered all that insolence which seemed to have left him on the day following her repulse of him. ‘Sacré! you rascal! will you touch the meat? No, not yet,’ and the whip caught Poulet across the face. The blow was answered with a furious howl. ‘Are you going, Madame Plomb? No, stand here and watch my sport. I do not like to have my sport interfered with, mind that. What I like to do, that I will do. Sacré! who will dare to stand between me and my game?’ ‘I will,’ said his wife, walking towards the dogs. ‘No, you shall not; you shall leave that meat alone.’ She stooped, picked up the piece of raw flesh, and threw it towards the dogs. ‘You are a bold woman to go so near the infuriated hounds,’ said Berthier, cracking his whip in the air; ‘I daren’t do it.’ ‘No, you are a bully; and bullies are always cowards.’ ‘Madame! you are uncivil. You bark like Pigeon and Poulet.’ ‘I shall bite, too.’ ‘Do you know what we do with barking, biting, snarling, angry, ungovernable beasts, eh? with those who show their teeth to their masters, who unsheath their claws to their lords? Do you know what we do with them, eh?’ He wiped his red eyes with the corner of his handkerchief, leaned back in his chair, and laughed. ‘Shall I tell you what we do with dangerous animals, or with those who stand between us and our object? We chain them up.’ He laughed again. Madame gazed contemptuously at his fat quivering cheeks. ‘We lock them up, we chain them up,’ continued he; ‘we make them so fast that they may bark as much as they like, but bite they cannot, for those whom they would bite keep out of their reach.’ CHAPTER XII.