Grandfather alone showed no enthusiasm nor even pleasure. His ill-humour was evident. He found small enjoyment in popularity or applause. All this open-mouthed, drinking, shouting crowd got on his nerves. I am sure he would rather have been somewhere else--in the country--for instance, eating strawberries and sweet cream. Still, he was constrained to yield before the general enthusiasm. “After all, it is perhaps well,” he conceded. “No tyrants, above all; liberty!” No, indeed; no tyrants! In an instant the vision of my father rose before me, standing on the doorstep, his extended arm driving away those poor gipsies. And by way of protest, I emptied my goblet. At that precise moment--so long as I live I shall never forget the sight--father entered the Café des Navigateurs. Unheard-of act! My back was turned to the door, so that I could only see him in the mirror. But it was Martinod’s face that told me of his presence. Martinod had suddenly turned pale, and the hand which held his glass trembled like that of Casenave, so that a little champagne slopped over. Father, before whom every one hastily gave way as before an important personage, or as if in fear, was already at our table. He raised his hat, saying most courteously, “Good day, gentlemen. I have come for my son.” No one spoke. There was utter silence, not only in our group but all through the room, every one attentive to the incident. The apparition of Nazzarena in the circus upon her black horse would not have aroused so much interest. The only sound was the exclamation, “Oh!” uttered by the proprietor, who, napkin in hand, stood motionless behind the bar. Grandfather was the first to regain self-possession. He remarked, calmly, almost impertinently: “Good afternoon, Michel. Will you take something with us?” The offer was received by the bystanders with mocking little laughs and all tongues were unloosed. But the diversion was of brief duration. Father merely replied, “Thank you, I came for my son. It is nearly dinner time, and we are expecting you both.” Thus he invited grandfather to go with us. Perceiving that his invitation was not accepted, he turned to Martinod, who was giggling, and measured him from head to foot. “See here, Monsieur Martinod, since I have removed my hat, I beg you to remove yours.” It is true that Martinod had kept his hat on, but I knew that it was the custom in the café. Far from complying with the order--no one could mistake that it was an order, notwithstanding the “I beg you”--he hastened to pull his hat lower on his head. Interested and enthralled, every one in the room was watching, and a wag in the corner ejaculated: “He will. He will not.” My father took a step forward, and to me he seemed a very giant. Alone among them all, it was he who spread terror. In that clear voice that I so well knew, the voice that moved Tem Bossette in the depths of his vines and brought the whole household together in an instant, he said: