mpany a friend to
the hotel of the "Three Emperors."

After dinner, they went not the Cafe Simon, their usual resort, but to
the little cafe in the market-place, where the fairs were held.

The small dining-hall was filled with young men. Gaston and his friend
called for a bottle of beer, and began to play billiards.

After they had been playing a short time, Gaston's attention was
attracted by peals of laughter from a party at the other end of the
room.

From this moment, preoccupied by this continued laughter, of which he
was evidently the subject, he knocked the balls carelessly in every
direction. His conduct surprised his friend, who said to him:

"What is the matter? You are missing the simplest shots."

"It is nothing."

The game went on a while longer, when Gaston suddenly turned as white as
a sheet, and, throwing down his cue, strode toward the table which was
occupied by five young men, playing dominoes and drinking wine.

He addressed the eldest of the group, a handsome man of twenty-six, with
fierce-looking eyes, and a heavy black mustache, named Jules Lazet.

"Repeat, if you dare," he said, in a voice trembling with passion, "the
remark you just now made!"

"I certainly will repeat it," said Lazet, calmly. "I said, and I say
it again, that a nobleman's daughter is no better than a mechanic's
daughter; that virtue does not always accompany a titled name."

"You mentioned a particular name!"

Lazet rose from his chair as if he knew his answer would exasperate
Gaston, and that from words they would come to blows.

"I did," he said, with an insolent smile: "I mentioned the name of the
pretty little fairy of La Verberie."

All the coffee-drinkers, and even two travelling agents who were dining
in the cafe, rose and surrounded the two young men.

The provoking looks, the murmurs, or rather shouts, which welcomed him
as he walked up to Lazet, proved to Gaston that he was surrounded by
enemies.

The wickedness and evil tongue of the old marquis were bearing their
fruit. Rancor ferments quickly and fiercely among the people of
Provence.

Gaston de Clameran was not a man to yield, even if his foes were a
hundred, instead of fifteen or twenty.

"No one but a coward," he said, in a clear, ringing voice, which the
pervading silence rendered almost startling, "no one but a contemptible
coward would be infamous enough to calumniate a young girl who has
neither father nor brother to defend her honor.