“Do you wish me to knock off your hat with my cane, Monsieur Martinod? For my hand will never touch you again.” This time the laughs ceased. The case was becoming tragic: one might have heard a spider spinning her web. Grandfather saved the situation. “Come, Martinod,” he said; “one must be polite.” “Then it’s for you, Father Rambert,” Martinod replied, suddenly uncovering. His face was bloodless, and no one could doubt of his defeat. My father, having conquered, turned to Casenave, lost in his dreams. “You, too, friend, would do well to go home.” The terrified Casenave cried in a melancholy voice which broke the tension, so droll did it seem. “I haven’t been drinking, Doctor. I swear I haven’t.” Thereupon we went out, father and I; I behind him, and though the crowded tables were full of company, I moved between them without difficulty, so large was the place respectfully made for my guide. By way of not resembling Martinod, whose cowardice disgusted me, I forced myself to hold up my head and appear indifferent. At the bottom of my heart I was in unspeakable dread of what might happen in the street, when we were alone. Never, save perhaps in my earliest childhood, had my parents inflicted corporal punishment upon us: self-esteem was a part of our education. But now I expected it. If only he didn’t slap my face like Martinod! Martinod was an enemy of the house and I had drunk his champagne. Little did I care for the house, however; like grandfather, I proposed to be free. Hadn’t grandfather taken a gun when he had failed _in the blood of the days of June_, against the prohibition of his own father, the magistrate, the nurseryman, whom he held in such slight esteem? They might beat me, might abuse me, but they should get nothing out of me. I braced myself against the terror which was gripping me, until I at last came to feel a sort of insensibility, a strength of resistance which enabled one to endure anything without uttering a complaint. I had, however, no occasion to make use of the provision of energy which I was laying in against my martyrdom. As we walked along father merely asked me, without raising his voice, “Have you often been to that café?” “Sometimes.” “Never set foot in it again.” I felt that indeed I never could set foot in it again. But would that be all my punishment? We were walking side by side, very fast. Though he gave no sign of what he was thinking, I understood,--I can not tell how--that a great tempest was inwardly agitating him. He had it in his power to crush me, to break me in two, and he kept silent. Thus we crossed the Market Place, and I seemed to myself like one of those criminals whom I had seen escorted to prison by a gendarme. If only Nazzarena did not see me! To me she represented the life of liberty, as I was slavery in person.