De Marthenay, unable to complain of the words addressed to him, tried to find an excuse for a quarrel, when Isabelle Orlandi came up like a whirl-wind and saved the compromising situation. “Come here, Jean, quickly. Here is the dragoon.” And with the unchecked caprice of a spoilt child she added quickly, “Show me your face!” “But, Mademoiselle Orlandi--” protested the lieutenant, growing pale. “Just for a minute, only just for a minute.” She pretended to examine his face and said, as though she were presenting him to the public, “It’s simply wonderful! There’s not a mark.” “What do you want of me?” stammered de Marthenay. The young girl burst out laughing and went on making fun of him. “You can’t deny it! These colonials can shoot splendidly--You beat them in a cotillion! But in war! Hardly!” “I don’t understand you--” “Oh, yes you do! You understand me perfectly. M. Guibert here has beaten you! We applaud him because, as you know, he is our hero. Now you are anything but a hero. When your uniform gets wet you talk about it for a week! Besides, when one really wants to fight, one doesn’t go into the cavalry!” Now for a man to extricate himself wittily from the embarrassment caused by a pretty woman’s jokes is no easy matter, and Lieutenant de Marthenay was far from being witty. He attacked Marcel Guibert once more. “The ladies are your protection, sir!” But Isabelle Orlandi did not let him go. It was she who answered: “Oh! he needs no protection to advance him.” Madame Dulaurens intervened at last: “Come, Isabelle, you are not considerate.” The girl lifted her arms heavenwards with a comical gesture: “One must not strike an officer of the Dragoons,” she said. “Even with flowers.” It was a joy to her to humiliate this young man. Before life humbled her--and she was quite determined to sacrifice everything, including love itself, to her luxurious ideas--she gave herself up entirely to the joy of being beautiful, coquettish, and daring. Clément Dulaurens, arriving at this point, turned the conversation completely by questioning Marcel about the Malagasy names which afforded him so much amusement. “Captain, do tell me, is Antanimbarindra Tsoksoraka a real name? Or is it just a journalist’s invention?” “Not at all. It is a village.” “And Ramazombazaha?” “He was the chief of the Hovas at the beginning of the war. Our men to simplify matters called him _Ramasse ton bazar_.” “There you see,” said Clément, “I’m the only one able to talk about the Madagascar expedition with you in technical terms. And I know some even more complicated names than these.” During the whole scene Alice had kept nervously silent. They sat down to dinner, and soon the little skirmish was forgotten in the general merriment which followed a day spent in the open air and in physical exercise.