Paule was hurt by the tone of his voice and turned away. Pouring out all the pent-up bitterness of her heart, she cried: “Do you think I cannot see behind the outward smile and the lie on the lips? These people hate us and would like to treat us with contempt. They run after you--you only--just to flatter their own vanity, and they want to have nothing to do with mother and me; we are only two poor women. But Alice is intended for Count de Marthenay, not for you!” Even without its closing sentence this indignant speech would have had its effect. What Paule told him now bluntly, Marcel had already gathered, though not in so clear a fashion. His pride and the affection which he had for his mother and sister would have been a check upon him. But the end of Paule’s speech blotted out all that went before. The very thought of this drawing-room soldier, who had come so unexpectedly across his path, held up to him as a rival sure of victory over him, roused all his instincts as a fighter and a conqueror. He was jealous before he was even in love. CHAPTER III THE BATTLE OF FLOWERS “Here they come, here they come!” shouted Jean Berlier, pointing to the end of the race-course. The course at Marlioz is less than two miles from Aix-les-Bains, on the road to Chambéry. The view from the stands, which occupy one of the slopes facing Mont Revard is fine and picturesque. Beyond a foreground of green fields, separated by screens of poplar-trees, the eyes light suddenly on the craggy escarpments of the mountain-chain, resembling some old fortress. By day there is little grace or beauty in the scene, but at eventide the setting sun lends to it a wonderful attractiveness. “Here they come,” repeated Isabelle Orlandi, clapping her hands. The flower-decked carriages had indeed reached the edge of the green sward, ready to file past the stands filled with a brilliant crowd. The spectators stamped enthusiastically and, swarming about like a lot of mad people or a hive of bees, tore flowers from the baskets of the passing vendors, spread their ammunition in front of them, and preluded the coming battle with the excited and useless shouts of soldiers on the point of assault. Under the light of a cloudless sky the fairy-like procession advanced, radiant in the sunshine. From afar all that was to be seen of it was a succession of bright patches and at intervals the rapid flashes reflected from the polished harness of the horses and the dazzling carriage-wheels as they caught the sun’s rays. It grew bigger and bigger, and outlined against the golden horizon, it brought to mind in its splendor and richness the procession of the Magi painted by some Venetian artist who adored color.