and lightning! gentlemen of honor to be termed “not responsible!” It was asserted that the nomination was made secretly, in a private house, by two or three unauthorized harum-scarums (that touched the very bone) who had with more caution than propriety withheld their names.  The article was headed, “The Crayfish-eaters’ Ticket.”  It continued further to say that, had not the publication of this ticket been regarded as a dull hoax, it would not have been suffered to pass for two weeks unchallenged, and that it was now high time the universal wish should be realized in its withdrawal.

Among the earliest readers of this production was the young Madame.  She first enjoyed a quiet gleeful smile over it, and then called: 

“Ninide, here, take this down to Dr. Mossy—­stop.”  She marked the communication heavily with her gold pencil.  “No answer; he need not return it.”

About the same hour, and in a neighboring street, one of the “not responsibles” knocked on the Villivicencio castle gate.  The General invited him into his bedroom.  With a short and strictly profane harangue the visitor produced the offensive newspaper, and was about to begin reading, when one of those loud nasal blasts, so peculiar to the Gaul, resounded at the gate, and another “not responsible” entered, more excited, if possible, than the first.  Several minutes were spent in exchanging fierce sentiments and slapping the palm of the left hand rapidly with the back of the right.  Presently there was a pause for breath.

“Alphonse, proceed to read,” said the General, sitting up in bed.

“De Crayfish-eaters’ Ticket”—­began Alphonse; but a third rapping at the gate interrupted him, and a third “irresponsible” re-enforced their number, talking loudly and wildly to the waiting-man as he came up the hall.

Finally, Alphonse read the article.  Little by little the incensed gentlemen gave it a hearing, now two words and now three, interrupting it to rip out long, rasping maledictions, and wag their forefingers at each other as they strode ferociously about the apartment.

As Alphonse reached the close, and dashed the paper to the floor, the whole quartet, in terrific unison, cried for the blood of the editor.

But hereupon the General spoke with authority.

“No, Messieurs,” he said, buttoning his dressing-gown, savagely, “you shall not fight him.  I forbid it—­you shall not!”

“But,” cried the three at once, “one of us must fight, and you—­you cannot; if you fight our cause is lost!  The candidate must not fight.”

“Hah-h!  Messieurs,” cried the hero, beating his breast and lifting his eyes, “grace au ciel.  I have a son.  Yes, my beloved friends, a son who shall call the villain out and make him pay for his impudence with blood, or eat his words in to-morrow morning’s paper.  Heaven be thanked that gave me a son for this occasion!  I shall see him at once—­as soon as I can dress.”