my coach, and that I
shall not suffer. But there is for your pains, and to be quit of your
company." And he tossed a silver coin at the Parisian.

There was an exclamation of horror in the background, and Monsieur de
Gaubert thrust himself forward.

"Sir, sir," he exclaimed in an agitated voice, "you cannot know whom
you are addressing. This is Monsieur Martin Marie Rigobert de Garnache,
Mestre-de-Champ in the army of the King."

"Of all those names the one I should opine might fit him best, but for
his ugliness, is that of Marie," answered the foreigner, leering, and
with a contemptuous shrug he turned again to mount the carriage.

At that all Garnache's self-control deserted him, and he did a thing
deplorable. In one of his blind accesses of fury, heedless of the
faithful and watchful Rabecque's arresting tug at his sleeve, he stepped
forward, and brought a heavy hand down upon the supercilious gentleman's
shoulder. He took him in the instant in which, with one foot off the
ground and the other on the step of the carriage, the foreigner was
easily thrown' off his balance; he dragged him violently backward, span
him round and dropped him floundering in the mire of the street-kennel.

That done, there fell a pause--a hush that was ominous of things
impending. A little crowd of idlers that had gathered was quickly
augmenting now, and from some there came a cry of "Shame!" at Garnache's
act of violence.

This is no moment at which to pause to moralize. And yet, how often is
it not so? How often does not public sympathy go out to the man who has
been assaulted without thought of the extent to which that man may have
provoked and goaded his assailant.

That cry of "Shame!" did no more than increase the anger that was
mastering Garnache. His mission in Grenoble was forgotten; mademoiselle
above-stairs was forgotten; the need for caution and the fear of the
Condillacs were forgotten; everything was thrust from his mind but the
situation of the moment.

Amid the hush that followed, the stranger picked himself slowly up, and
sought to wipe the filth from his face and garments. His servant and his
friend flew to his aid, but he waved them aside, and advanced towards
Garnache, eyes blazing, lips sneering.

"Perhaps," said he, in that soft, foreign tone of his, laden now with
fierce mock-politeness, "perhaps monsieur proposes to apologize again."

"Sir, you are mad," interposed Gaubert. "You are a foreigner, I
perceiv