Then he turned resolutely and faced La Proserpine, and looked her in the eye with that lofty dignity which only the brave man can summon to his aid against cowardly adversaries. Despite her master's burlesque attire, Bellinde could not escape a sensation of respect and remorse. She held in her hands the life of the man whom she desired to humble and rob, but not to torture and murder. She hesitated another moment, then said: "Faith, Master Pignoux, I do recognize you now! but _mordi_! you are much changed! Have you been very sick, pray?" "Yes, madame," replied Bois-Doré, touched by her kindly impulse; "I have had a fatiguing time in my house since I was compelled to part with a person who served me well." "I know whom you mean," rejoined Bellinde. "She was a treasure whom you didn't appreciate and turned out-of-doors like a dog. Yes, yes, I know how it happened. You were entirely in the wrong, and now you regret it! But it's too late, you see! she will never serve you again!" "She will do well never to serve anyone, if she can do without it; but I flatter myself that, wherever she may be, she has not forgotten my generosity to her. I dismissed her without a word of reproach and did not treat her stingily; she may have told you so." "Enough; we will speak of this later. Serve us with your best, and now go back to your work, old man. Go!" As he went out, he saw her whisper to one of her men. "We are saved!" he said to Mario in the hall. "She did not betray me, and she has given orders to let us go." And the marquis, in his innocence, walked with Mario toward the kitchen door; but he was much mistaken: La Proserpine had, on the contrary, issued even stricter orders for the blockade. So they had no choice but to continue to busy themselves with the composition of the famous _omelette aux pistaches_. About an hour passed without any perceptible change in this absurd yet tragical situation. There was a great uproar in the dining-room. Macabre was shouting and swearing and singing. There were alternations of brutal merriment and brutal rage. This is what was taking place: Lieutenant Saccage was as outspoken and concise as his name. It seemed ridiculous to him to prepare for a sharp and decisive blow, which demanded a swift and silent march, by a supper which he well knew would degenerate into a carouse. Macabre was a desperado addicted to all the excesses which were the real motive of his expeditions. He had not, like his lieutenant, the qualities of the shrewd speculator, and, if I were not afraid of profaning words, I would say that, in his adventurous life, he wallowed in a sort of drunkenness, which was the poetry, a sombre and brutish sort of poetry, of that life. He was as much gypsy as thief, squandering all he acquired, and rich only by fits and starts.