"Have you heard anything from Montaigu?" asked Louis Renaud. "They fought there yesterday," said Pascal; "that is, a few shots were fired by the National Guard and some peasants were killed and wounded." "What occasioned it?" asked Petit-Pierre. "A dispute at the fair, which became a riot." "Who commands at Montaigu?" again asked Petit-Pierre. "A mere captain usually," replied Pascal; "but yesterday, in consequence of the fair, the sub-prefect and the general commanding the military sub-division were both there." "Do you know the general's name?" "Dermoncourt." "And pray, who is General Dermoncourt?" "Under what head do you desire to know of him, monsieur,--man, opinions, or character?" "All three heads." "As a man, he is from sixty to sixty-two years old, and he belongs to that iron race which fought the wars of the Revolution and the Empire. He will be night and day in the saddle, and not leave us an instant's rest." "Very good," said Louis Renaud, laughing. "Then we'll try to tire him out; and as we are, none of us, half his age we shall be very unlucky or very stupid if we fail." "His opinions?" asked Petit-Pierre. "At heart I believe him to be a republican." "In spite of twelve years' service under the Empire! He must have been dyed in the wool." "There are many like him. You remember what Henri IV. said of the Leaguers,--'The barrel smells of the herring.'" [Illustration: Portrait of Dermoncourt.] "His character?" "Oh, as for that, loyalty itself! He is neither an Amadis nor a Galahad. He's a Ferragus, and if ever Madame had the misfortune to fall into his hands--" "What are you talking about, Monsieur Pascal?" exclaimed Petit-Pierre. "I am a lawyer, monsieur," replied the civil commissary, "and in that capacity I foresee all the chances of a case. I repeat, therefore, that if Madame were unfortunately to fall into the hands of General Dermoncourt she would have full opportunity to recognize his courtesy." "Then," said Petit-Pierre, "that is the sort of enemy Madame would choose for herself,--brave, vigorous, and loyal. Monsieur, we are fortunate-- But you spoke of shots at the fords of the river?" "I presume that those I heard on my way came from there." "Perhaps," said the marquis, "Bertha had better go and reconnoitre. She will soon let us know what is happening." Bertha rose. "What!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre, "do you send mademoiselle?" "Why not?" asked the marquis. "I think it is a man's duty, not a woman's." "My young friend," said the old gentleman, "in such matters I rely first upon myself, next upon Jean Oullier, and after Jean Oullier on Bertha and on Mary. I desire the honor of staying here with you; my fellow, Jean Oullier, is off amusing himself. Consequently, Bertha must go." Bertha went toward the door; but on the threshold she met her sister and exchanged a few words with her in a low voice. "Here is Mary," she said, turning back.