The blacksmith, having drained his glass to the dregs with one toss of the hand, goes on to say: “My friend, I have not lived in the city and frequented the haunts of society like you--though I was once in garrison at Château Thierry--but I have a grain or two of common sense, and were I in your place I should not prowl around the little cottage over there like a dog.” “And why, pray, should I not visit the gamekeeper’s house?” “Because there are more poachers than millionnaires in the world.” “Well, what of it?” “Nothing; only Savin Barrau is a man who attends strictly to his own business.” “And how does that concern me?” “Ah, so you do not understand? Well, then, come into my shop and I will explain. Now then,” he continues as they seat themselves inside the little shop, “only four days ago Savin was shot at by some poacher on his mistress’ preserves.” “So I heard. Well?” “The bullet missed that time, but who knows whether he will escape the next?” “That does not concern me.” “But don’t you see, you simpleton, that if Savin is killed, the world will say you, egged on by Catherine, committed the deed?” “What? You mean----” “If such a thing should occur, there are two of you to prove an alibi.” “Two? How so?” “Bruno also might be suspected.” “That young scamp? But she cares nothing for him.” “Has she said so?” “Yes, a dozen times.” “Ah, so she converses with you frequently, eh? But, my friend, that is not the only danger you encounter. You, too, are sometimes given to poaching.” “I?” “Oh, yes. I know a thing or two about dogs myself, and the young hound crouching there by the forge with such a harmless air is the finest hunter in St. Benoit, and we all know the country is not wanting in good dogs.” “And what of that, if you please?” “Nothing at all, my friend, only should Catherine’s husband catch you at it a shot from his gun would soon put an end to you, and the law would exonerate him. Poachers always get the worst of it in those cases.” Firmin turns visibly pale. True valor is quite an unknown quantity in his composition. “Your health, my boy,” repeats Andoche, “and take my advice: Be careful what you do. Everybody knows Madame Catherine’s love of coquetry. It is not that she cares for you--oh, no! but she hates her husband. If Barrau at any time since the raspberry _fête_ had but asked forgiveness, she would have turned her back on you fast enough, you may be sure.” In spite of Firmin’s rising indignation, Andoche continues: “And if she were not so often twitted by the village girls of being at odds with Savin, she might now, even, overlook the humiliation she endured that day. But Rosalie and Félicité are always mocking her on the subject, and it only adds fuel to the flame. There will be trouble one of these days, mark my words, and as you are my friend, I advise you to keep out of it.”