“I shall remember it.  Monsieur, permit me to regret that having lately won our gratitude and esteem, you have taken this way of modifying those feelings.  But after all,” she added with gentle courtesy, “we may well put your good deeds against this—­this error in judgment.  The balance is in your favor still, provided you never return to this topic.  Come, is it agreed?” The baroness’s manner was full of tact, and the latter sentences were said with an open kindliness of manner.  There was nothing to prevent Perrin from dropping the subject, and remaining good friends.  A gentleman or a lover would have so done.  Monsieur Perrin was neither.  He said bitterly, “You refuse me, then.”

The tone and the words were each singly too much for the baroness’s pride.  She answered coldly but civilly,—­

“I do not refuse you.  I do not take an affront into consideration.”

“Be calm, mamma; no affront whatever was intended.”

“Ah! here is one that is more reasonable,” cried Perrin.

“There are men,” continued Josephine without noticing him, “who look to but one thing—­interest.  It was an offer made politely in the way of business:  decline it in the same spirit; that is what you have to do.”

“Monsieur, you hear what mademoiselle says?  She carries politeness a long way.  After all it is a good fault.  Well, monsieur, I need not answer you, since Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire has answered you; but I detain you no longer.”

Strictly a weasel has no business with the temper of a tiger, but this one had, and the long vindictiveness of a Corsican.  “Ah! my little lady, you turn me out of the house, do you?” cried he, grinding his teeth.

“Turn him out of the house? what a phrase! where has this man lived?”

“A man!” snarled Perrin, “whom none ever yet insulted without repenting it, and repenting in vain.  You are under obligations to me, and you think to turn me out!  You are at my mercy, and you think I will let you turn me to your door!  In less than a mouth I will stand here, and say to you, Beaurepaire is mine.  Begone from it!”

When he uttered these terrible words, each of which was like a sword-stroke to the baroness, the old lady, whose courage was not equal to her strength, shrank over the side of her arm-chair, and cried piteously—­“He threatens me! he threatens me!  I am frightened;” and put up her trembling hands, for the notary’s eloquence, being accompanied with abundance of gesture, bordered upon physical violence.  His brutality received an unexpected check.  Imagine that a sparrow-hawk had seized a trembling pigeon, and that a royal falcon swooped, and with one lightning-like stroke of body and wing, buffeted him away, and sent him gaping and glaring and grasping at pigeonless air with his claws.  So swift and majestic, Josephine de Beaurepaire came from her chair with one gesture of her body between her mother and the notary, who was advancing with