“The owner of the vineyards on the Borderie?”
“The same! The handsomest young farmer in the country, and the best also. Ah! he has good blood in his veins; we may well be proud of him.”
“Ask him to stop,” said M. d’Escorval.
Lacheneur leaned over the balustrade, and, forming a trumpet out of his two hands, he called:
“Oh! Chanlouineau!”
The robust young farmer raised his head.
“Come up,” shouted Lacheneur; “the baron wishes to speak with you.”
Chanlouineau responded by a gesture of assent. They saw him enter the gate, cross the garden, and at last appear at the door of the drawing-room.
His features were distorted with fury, his disordered clothing gave evidence of a serious conflict. His cravat was gone, and his torn shirt-collar revealed his muscular throat.
“Where is this fighting?” demanded Lacheneur eagerly; “and with whom?”