“Monsieur, you hear what mademoiselle says? She carries politeness a long way. After all it is a good fault. Well, monsieur, I need not answer you, since Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire has answered you; but I detain you no longer.” Strictly a weasel has no business with the temper of a tiger, but this one had, and the long vindictiveness of a Corsican. “Ah! my little lady, you turn me out of the house, do you?” cried he, grinding his teeth. “Turn him out of the house? what a phrase! where has this man lived?” “A man!” snarled Perrin, “whom none ever yet insulted without repenting it, and repenting in vain. You are under obligations to me, and you think to turn me out! You are at my mercy, and you think I will let you turn me to your door! In less than a mouth I will stand here, and say to you, Beaurepaire is mine. Begone from it!” When he uttered these terrible words, each of which was like a sword-stroke to the baroness, the old lady, whose courage was not equal to her strength, shrank over the side of her arm-chair, and cried piteously--“He threatens me! he threatens me! I am frightened;” and put up her trembling hands, for the notary’s eloquence, being accompanied with abundance of gesture, bordered upon physical violence. His brutality received an unexpected check. Imagine that a sparrow-hawk had seized a trembling pigeon, and that a royal falcon swooped, and with one lightning-like stroke of body and wing, buffeted him away, and sent him gaping and glaring and grasping at pigeonless air with his claws. So swift and majestic, Josephine de Beaurepaire came from her chair with one gesture of her body between her mother and the notary, who was advancing with arms folded in a brutal, menacing way--not the Josephine we have seen her, the calm languid beauty, but the demoiselle de Beaurepaire--her great heart on fire--her blood up--not her own only, but all the blood of all the De Beaurepaires--pale as ashes with great wrath, her purple eyes on fire, and her whole panther-like body full of spring. “Wretch! you dare to insult her, and before me! Arriere miserable! or I soil my hand with your face.” And her hand was up with the word, up, up, higher it seemed than ever a hand was raised before. And if he had hesitated one moment, I really believe it would have come down; not heavily, perhaps--the lightning is not heavy. But there was no need. The towering threat and the flaming eye and the swift rush buffeted the caitiff away: he recoiled. She followed him as he went, strong, FOR A MOMENT OR TWO, as Hercules, beautiful and terrible as Michael driving Satan. He dared not, or could not stand before her: he writhed and cowered and recoiled all down the room, while she marched upon him. But the driven serpent hissed horribly as it wriggled away. “You shall both be turned out of Beaurepaire by me, and forever; I swear it, parole de Perrin.”