“I did not ask you anything about that, Master Laramée,” said Stephanette, with a dry tone. “Where is monseigneur going in that carriage? Is it to-day or to-morrow that he wishes to use it?” “To-morrow will be to-day, and after to-morrow will be to-morrow, mademoiselle,” bluntly replied the majordomo, offended by the imperious manner of Stephanette, and he added, between his teeth: “There is a dove transformed into a speckled magpie.” During this conversation, Luquin Trinquetaille had approached Stephanette. The captain tried to assume a cold, dignified, and disdainful air. “My dear little one,” said he, in a very careless tone, “do you not think flame colour a very pretty colour?” Stephanette turned her head, and, looking behind her, said to Luquin: “Your dear little one? If you are talking to Jeannette, the laundress, that I see down there, you had better speak louder.” “I am not speaking to Jeannette, do you understand?” cried Luquin, losing patience. “Jeannette, laundress as she is, would not have the boldness, the effrontery, to give a ribbon to a vagabond Bohemian.” “Ah, that is it, is it?” said the mischievous girl. “Really, this ribbon has the same effect on you, that a scarlet streamer has on a bull from Camargne.” “If I were a bull from Camargue, with double horns, this vagabond would feel the point of them. But no matter, this miscreant shall pay for his insolence; may I die, if I do not cut off his ears and nail them to the mast of my tartan!” “It is his tongue, rather, that you ought to be jealous of, my poor Luquin, for never a troubadour of the good King René sang more sweetly.” “I will tear out his tongue, then,--a hundred thousand devils!” “Come, do not do anything absurd, Luquin. The Bohemian is as courageous and expert as a gendarme.” “Many thanks for your pity, mademoiselle, but I do not fight with dogs, I beat them.” “Yes, but sometimes the dog has good teeth which bite very hard, I warn you.” “Curse me, if you are not the most diabolical creature I ever knew!” cried Trinquetaille. “I believe, by St. Elmo, my patron, that if I were to fight to-morrow in camp with this copper face, you would say: ‘Our Lady for the Bohemian!’” “Without doubt, I would say it.” “You would say it?” “Why, yes. Ought I not to take the part of the weak against the strong,--the small against the great? Ought I not at least to encourage the poor man who would dare challenge the formidable, unconquerable arm of the captain of _The Holy Terror to the Moors?_” “Holy Cross! you are jesting, Stephanette, and I have no desire for it now.” “That is very evident.” “Where is this good-for-nothing fellow, this vagabond?” “Do you wish me to go at once and find out? No inquiry would be more agreeable to me.” “This is too much, you are making sport of me. Ah, well, good-bye! All is over, you understand, all is over between us.” Stephanette shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Why do you talk nonsense like that?” “What, nonsense?”