“So be it,” returned “the Bear.” “Man is a free agent.” And the shaggy-haired, strongly built man shambled away without asking if Andoche intended to renew the fight, which was far from Andoche’s wish. He had received a lesson. The women, however, continued to score and revile Catherine. Said one old gossip: “Well, that fool of a Savin has no more than he deserves. When a man marries he ought not to choose a girl who is neither a peasant nor a lady.” “Come, come!” said Bruno, irritably. “Ah, ha! you are sensitive on the subject, eh?” But the interest in the discussion soon flagged, and presently they began to pick berries. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER III. THE CORNER OF THE WOOD. Under arches of foliage made beautiful by an occasional stray gleam of sunshine, Savin and Catherine walked homeward in silence. With tears trickling down her cheeks and suffusing her long eyelashes, the young woman put one foot before the other like an automaton, and saw nothing but the black earth under her feet. She took no notice of the trees and blossoming flowers, of the delicate blue gentians that fringed the path, of the soothing peace of nature. At any other time Catherine would have gloried in the picture. The sylvan verdure, the fragrant air, the exquisite landscape had always appealed to her sense of the beautiful. But now, with downcast eyes, she cared not for the charming spectacle. Savin, too, was an ardent admirer of nature, and he passionately loved the grand old forest. But now, jealous and discontented, he walked moodily along, while Patachaud, leaping by his side, in vain pleaded for attention. For a long time Barrau and his wife proceeded without speaking, each keeping to his or her own path and brooding over the sorrowful situation. And yet how charming they were--she with her raven hair and lustrous dark eyes, straight aquiline nose, and perfect mouth; and he, a man of thirty-two, with the carriage of a soldier, and a strong intellectual face, a rich deep voice, and skin bronzed by the summer sun. A blond mustache gave to his face a look which the French are accustomed to trace back to their ancestors the Gauls. Certainly there could not have been found in all the countryside two handsomer persons than Savin and Catherine. Faithfully and fondly, too, had they loved each other, and until now had been happy. But a little coquetry and ardent love for pleasure on the one hand, and jealousy on the other, had spoiled it all, and--who could tell?--might lead to the direst misery. Barrau did not know how imprudent it is for a man to take the conceit out of a pretty woman, and Catherine did not realize how hard it is to attempt to dissuade a strong man from what he considers right. And so they, at length, reached the border of the wood--she ruminating upon vengeance, and he almost tragically annoyed by the thought that they had given cause for scandal to the gossips they had left behind.