As though to prevent further disagreement, Savin started to go, but his anger forced him to stop and say: “Ah, well, yes. Yes, then! A woman who compromises herself in the presence of evil tongues has no self-respect.”
“Take care!” cried Catherine, advancing toward him in anger.
“Take care yourself, my child. Do your duty and be circumspect is all I ask. But no more coquetry, you understand, or——”
“Or—you will kill me, perhaps. Well, then, do it. Kill me, if you will.”
“Madame,” said he, solemnly, “I do not come from a family of assassins.”
Catherine’s face turned livid. She fell heavily to the floor, and Savin could have bitten his tongue out for his cruel words.
CHAPTER IV.
THE STAMPEDE.
Three weeks later. The annual cattle show at St. Benoit is about to open. St. Benoit is the great region for fine cattle in France. From miles around the farmers and peasants assemble to exhibit the beasts they have fattened to sell in Paris at a reasonable profit.
Every road is crowded. Oxen, cows, and sheep fill the thoroughfares and byways, and the quaint rural habitations are gayly decorated with flags and streamers. Not a drop of rain has fallen since the famous day of the raspberry fête, and each morning the sun has risen in the east with more scorching radiance.