Now, in the strangeness of things, what followed was to affect the whole of my future, and it is necessary that I should go into some detail. The room in which we sat opened out into a small courtyard surrounded by a high wall. A side door gave access to the street, and near it grew a stunted apple-tree that somehow lived and thrived amidst its sterile surroundings. Beneath the apple-tree was a rustic seat and a table, and as we drank and talked I observed the side door open, and the Capuchin entered and called for alms. The innkeeper went out, not best pleased to attend to him, but it was dangerous to cross a priest then. He motioned the friar to a seat on the bench and served him--as sparingly as possible. As I looked the vague mistrust I had of that strange figure when we first met came upon me once more, and I said, as I pointed to him: “See there! He might be a spy for all we know.” “He is welcome to spy here,” said St. Cyergue, “we but conspire against red wine.” “Let us call the friar and make him drink our health,” said some one. “Bah!” exclaimed Lignières, who had hitherto kept silent, contenting himself with filling his glass each time the bottle passed him. “Waste wine on a friar? Not I! ’Twould be better to drink to the bright eyes of our mistresses. Would it not, Vibrac?” I shrugged my shoulders and laughed; but the man, being a little in his cups, went at me with the persistence of a fly. “Yes! we will toast our mistresses, and the last-comer shall have the place of honor, and toast her first. Go on, Vibrac, name her--fill your glasses, gentlemen!” “We will toast her without naming her,” said Ponthieu, and the others laughed in approval as St. Cyergue cut in. “By far the best plan. I, for one, would find it difficult to name my particular star.” “You change her every day with your hat and cloak, eh, baron?” sneered Lignières, who was beginning to be quarrelsome; “you are not like our Strephon here, constant only to his Chloe.” “Monsieur le Vicomte, you go too far,” I warned him, but he laughed recklessly. “If you do not name her, I will, and put you to shame as a chicken-livered lover,” and he rose to his feet with his glass held out at arm’s length before him. St. Cyergue tried to stop him, but it was useless. “Gentlemen!” he said, “here’s to Chloe of the blue eyes and fair hair. Here’s to sweet Ma----!” He spoke no more, for I had risen in uncontrollable anger and flung the glass I held in my hand in his face, and he stood, sober enough now, wiping his bleeding lips with the back of his hand and looking at me with death in his eyes. Then, with a little gasp, for he was almost speechless with rage, he pointed to the courtyard. “Now,” he said, and with a bow I replied, “I am at your service, monsieur.”