This insult, addressed to La Louvs whom he loved with unqualified passion, triumphed over the pacific resolutions of Martial; he knit his brows, his blood rushed to his face, the veins on his forehead and neck swelled like ropes; yet he still had command over himself to say to Nicholas, in a voice altered by suppressed rage. "Take care--you seek a quarrel, and you will find a new trick that you do not look for." "A trick--to me?" "Yes, better than the last." "How? Nicholas," said Calabash, with well-feigned attachment, "has Martial beat you? I say, mother, do you hear? I am no more astonished that Nicholas is afraid of him." "He whipped me, because he took me unawares," cried Nicholas, becoming pale with rage. "You lie! You attacked me slyly, I kicked you, and I took pity on you, but if you undertake to speak again of La Louve--understand well, of my Louve--then I'll have no mercy--you shall carry my marks for a long time." "And if I wish to speak of La Louve, I?" said Calabash. "I will give you a couple of boxes just to warm you; and if you go on, I'll go on to warm you." "And if I speak of her?" said the widow, slowly. "You?" "Yes, me!" "You?" said Martial, making a violent effort to contain himself, "you?" "You will beat me also, is it not so?" "No! but if you speak of La Louve I'll thrash Nicholas; now go on, it is your affair, and his also." "You," cried the enraged bandit, raising his dangerous knife, "you thrash me?" "Nicholas, no knife!" cried the widow, endeavoring to seize the arm of her son. But he, drunk with wine and anger, pushed his mother rudely on one side, and rushed at his brother. Martial fell back quickly, seized his heavy knotted stick, and put himself on the defensive. "Nicholas, no knife!" repeated the widow. "Let him alone!" cried Calabash, arming herself with a hatchet. Nicholas, brandishing his formidable knife, watched a favorable moment to throw himself on his brother. "I tell you," he cried, "that I'll crush you and your Louve, both. Now, mother--now, Calabash! let us cool him; this has lasted too long!" And, believing the time favorable for his attack, the brigand rushed toward his brother with his knife raised. Martial, very expert with a club, retreated quickly, lifted his stick, made a quick turn with it in the air, describing the figure eight, and let it fall heavily on the arm of Nicholas, who, hurt severely, dropped his knife. "Brigand, you have broken my arm!" cried he, taking hold of his arm with his left hand. "No, I felt my club rebound," answered Martial, kicking the knife under the table. Then, profiting by the situation of Nicholas, he took him by the collar, pushed him roughly backward toward the door of the little cellar, opened it with one hand, and with the other threw him in and shut the door.