The customers looked upon him with distrustful eyes, for it must be confessed that his appearance was decidedly against him, and he had not yet acquired the necessary art of seeing and hearing while affecting to be doing neither; and it was easy for the dullest observer to be certain that it was not for the sake of obtaining a breakfast that he had entered the establishment. Andre had penetration enough to see the effect he had produced, and he became more and more embarrassed. He had finished his meal now and had lighted a cigar, and had ordered a small glass of brandy. Nearly all the customers had withdrawn, leaving only five or six, who were playing cards at a table near the door. Andre was anxious to see Croisenois enter his carriage, and so he lingered, ordering another glass of brandy as an excuse. He had just been served, when a man, whose dress very much resembled his own, lounged into the wine-shop. He was a tall, clumsily built fellow, with an insolent expression upon his beardless face. His coat and cap were in an equally dilapidated condition; and in the squeaky voice of the rough, he ordered a plate of beef and half a bottle of wine, and, as he brushed past Andre, upset his glass of brandy. The artist made no remark, though he felt quite sure that this act was intentional, as the fellow laughed impudently when he saw the damage that he had done. When his breakfast was served, he carelessly spit upon Andre’s boots. The insult was so apparent that Andre began to reflect. “Had he not succeeded in eluding his spies, as he thought that he had done? And was it not quite possible that this man had been sent to pick a quarrel with him, and deal him a disabling, or even a fatal blow?” Prudence counselled him to leave the place at once, but he felt that he could not go until he had found out the real truth. There seemed to be but little doubt on the matter, however; for as the fellow cut up his meat, he jerked every bit of skin and gristle into his neighbor’s lap; then, after finishing up his wine, he managed to upset the few drops remaining on to Andre’s arm and shoulder. This was the finishing stroke. “Please, remember,” remarked Andre calmly, “that there is some one at the table besides yourself.” “Do you think I’m blind, mate?” returned the fellow brutally. “Mind your own business, or----” And to conclude the sentence, he shook his fist threateningly in the young man’s face. Andre started to his feet, and, with a well-directed blow in the chest, sent the fellow rolling under the table. At the sound of the scuffle, the card-players turned round, and saw Andre standing erect, with quivering lips and eyes flashing with rage, while his antagonist was lying on the floor among the overturned chairs. “Come, come! No squabbling here!” remarked one of the players.