"True, true," said Bois-Doré, who abhorred disputes and thought of nothing but putting an end to one in progress, whereas De Beuvre moved uneasily in his chair, making it very plain that he had not done with it. "After all," continued D'Alvimar, hoping to make his peace, "did he not faithfully and zealously serve King Henri, to whose memory you all seem to be devoted hereabout?" "And with reason, monsieur!" cried De Beuvre; "with reason, _mordi_! Where will you find a wiser and more humane king? But for how long a time did your frantic Leaguer of a La Châtre fight against him? how many times did he betray him? how much money had to be paid him to induce him to remain quiet? You are a young man, and a society man; you saw only the courtier and the smooth talker; but we old provincials know our petty provincial tyrants, I tell you! I wish that Monsieur de Bois-Doré would tell you how that illustrious warrior effected the glorious conquest of Sancerre by falsehood and treachery!" "Bless my soul!" said Bois-Doré, with some temper, "how do you expect me to remember such things?" "Why should it not please you to remember them, I pray to know?" retorted De Beuvre, paying no heed to the marquis's annoyance; "you were not at the breast, I fancy?" "But I was so young, that I remember nothing about it." "Well, I remember," cried De Beuvre, vexed by his friend's defection. "Now, I am ten years younger than you, my friend, and I was not there; I was a page to young Condé, the grandfather of the present one, and a very different man, I promise you." "Come, come," said Lauriane, venturing upon a most mischievous step in order to pacify her father and turn the quarrel aside from its main subject; "our dear marquis must needs confess that he was at the siege of Sancerre and bore himself valiantly there, for everybody knows it, and modesty alone leads him to refuse to remember it." "You know very well that I was not there," said Bois-Doré, "since I was here with you." "Oh! I am not speaking of the last siege, which lasted only twenty-four hours, last May, and which was simply the _coup de grâce_; I refer to the great, the famous siege of 1572." Bois-Doré had a horror of dates. He coughed, moved about, and poked the fire, which did not need it; but Lauriane was determined to immolate him under bouquets of praise. "I know that you were very young," she said, "but even then you fought like a lion." "It is true that my friends performed wonders," replied Bois-Doré, "and that it was a very hot struggle; but I could not strike very hard, however eager I may have been, at that age." "_Mordi_! you took two prisoners yourself!" cried De Beuvre, stamping on the floor. "Look you, it drives me frantic to see a stout-hearted old fighter like you deny his gallant exploits rather than admit his age!" Bois-Doré was deeply wounded, and his face became sad; it was his only way of manifesting his displeasure to his friends.