one lightning-like stroke of body and wing buffeted him away, and there he was on his back, gaping and glaring and grasping at nothing with his claws.  So swift and irresistible, but far more terrible and majestic, Josephine de Beaurepaire came from her chair with one gesture of her body between her mother and the notary, who was advancing on her with arms folded in a brutal menacing way,—­not the Josephine we have seen her, the calm, languid beauty, but the Demoiselle de Beaurepaire,—­her great heart on fire, her blood up,—­not her own only, but all the blood of all the De Beaurepaires,—­pale as ashes with wrath, her purple eyes flaring, and her whole panther-like body ready either to spring or strike.

    “’Slave! you dare to insult her, and before me! Arriere,
    miserable! or I soil my hand with your face!’

“And her hand was up with the word, up, up,—­higher it seemed than ever a hand was lifted before.  And if he had hesitated one moment, I believe it would have come down; and if it had, he would have gone to her feet before it:  not under its weight,—­the lightning is not heavy,—­but under the soul that would have struck with it.  But there was no need:  the towering threat and the flaming eye and the swift rush buffeted the caitiff away:  he recoiled three steps, and nearly fell down.  She followed him as he went, strong in that moment as Hercules, beautiful and terrible as Michael driving Satan.  He dared not, or rather he could not, stand before her:  he writhed and cowered and recoiled down the room while she marched upon him.  Then the driven serpent hissed as it wriggled away.

    “’For all this, she too shall be turned out of Beaurepaire,—­not
    like me, but forever!  I swear it, parole de Perrin!’

    “’She shall never be turned out!  I swear it, foi de De
    Beaurepaire!’

    “‘You, too, daughter of Sa—­’

    “‘Tais toi, et sors a l’instant meme!  Lache!’

“The old lady moaning and trembling and all but fainting in her chair; the young noble like destroying angel, hand in air, and great eye scorching and withering; and the caitiff wriggling out at the door, wincing with body and head, his knees knocking, his heart panting, yet raging, his teeth gnashing, his cheek livid, his eye gleaming with the fire of hell.”

Too much of this sort of thing becomes meretricious; a man is never the master of his subject, when he suffers himself to be carried away by it.  And though a fault of haste is pardonable, when lost in fine execution, we must acknowledge that there is certainly something very “Frenchy” in this scene,—­a remark, though, which can hardly be considered as derogatory, when we remember that altogether the most readable fiction of the day is French itself.  Our author is evidently a great admirer of Victor Hugo, though he is no such careful artist in language:  he seldom closes with such tremendous subjects as that adventurous writer attempts; but he has all the sharp antithesis, the pungent epigram of the other, and in his freest flight, though he peppers us as prodigally with colons, he never becomes absurd, which the other is constantly on the edge of being.