“Well, well, Pere Rigou, what are you doing here?” said Socquard, slapping the usurer on the shoulder; he was coming from a barn at the end of the garden, where he kept various contrivances for the public games, such as weighing-machines, merry-go-rounds, see-saws, all in readiness for the Tivoli when opened. Socquard stepped noiselessly, for he was wearing a pair of those yellow leather-slippers which cost so little by the gross that they have an enormous sale in the provinces. “If you have any fresh lemons, I’d like a glass of lemonade,” said Rigou; “it is a warm evening.” “Who is making that racket?” said Socquard, looking through the window and seeing his daughter and Marie Tonsard. “They are quarrelling for Bonnebault,” said Rigou, sardonically. The anger of the father was at once controlled by the interest of the tavern-keeper. The tavern-keeper judged it prudent to listen outside, as Rigou was doing; the father was inclined to enter and declare that Bonnebault, possessed of admirable qualities in the eyes of a tavern-keeper, had none at all as son-in-law to one of the notables of Soulanges. And yet Pere Socquard had received but few offers for his daughter. At twenty-two Aglae already rivalled in size and weight Madame Vermichel, whose agility seemed phenomenal. Sitting behind a counter increased the adipose tendency which she derived from her father. “What devil is it that gets into girls?” said Socquard to Rigou. “Ha!” replied the ex-Benedictine, “of all the devils, that’s the one the Church has most to do with.” Just then Bonnebault came out of the billiard-room with a cue in his hand, and struck Marie sharply, saying:-- “You’ve made me miss my stroke; but I’ll not miss you, and I’ll give it to you till you muffle that clapper of yours.” Socquard and Rigou, who now thought it wise to interfere, entered the cafe by the front door, raising such a crowd of flies that the light from the windows was obscured; the sound was like that of the distant practising of a drum-corps. After their first excitement was over, the big flies with the bluish bellies, accompanied by the stinging little ones, returned to their quarters in the windows, where on three tiers of planks, the paint of which was indistinguishable under the fly-specks, were rows of viscous bottles ranged like soldiers. Marie was crying. To be struck before a rival by the man she loves is one of those humiliations that no woman can endure, no matter what her place on the social ladder may be; and the lower that place is, the more violent is the expression of her wrath. The Tonsard girl took no notice of Rigou or of Socquard; she flung herself on a bench, in gloomy and sullen silence, which the ex-monk carefully watched. “Get a fresh lemon, Aglae,” said Pere Socquard, “and go and rinse that glass yourself.”