A large dog, with crooked legs, came in with Martial; but he remained near the door, not daring to approach the fire, or the people at the table; experience had proved to old Miraut, that he was, as well as his master, not in very good odor with the family.
"Where are the children?" were the first words of Martial, as he took his seat at the table.
"They are where they are," answered Calabash, sharply.
"Where are the children, mother?" repeated Martial, without paying any attention to his sister.
"Gone to bed," answered the widow, dryly.
"Have they supped, mother?"
"What's that to you?" cried Nicholas, brutally, after having swallowed a large glass of wine, to augment his audacity.
Martial as indifferent to the attacks of Nicholas as he was to Calabash's, said to his mother, "I am sorry the children have already gone to bed, for I like to have them alongside of me when I sup."
"And we, as they trouble us, packed them off," cried Nicholas; "if it don't please you, go and look for them!"
Martial, much surprised, looked fixedly at his brother. Then, as if reflecting on the folly of a quarrel, he shrugged his shoulders, cut a piece of bread with his knife, and helped himself to a slice of meat. The terrier had drawn nearer to Nicholas, although still at a very respectful distance; the bandit, irritated at the contemptuous indifference of his brother, and hoping to make him lose his patience by striking the dog, gave Miraut a furious kick, which made him howl piteously. Martial became purple, pressed in his contracted hands the knife which he held, and struck violently on the table; but, still containing himself, he called his dog, and said gently, "Here, Miraut." The terrier came and laid down at his master's feet. This moderation defeated the projects of Nicholas, who wished to push his brother to extremities to bring about a rupture. So he added, "I don't like dogs—I won't have your dog here." For answer, Martial poured out a glass of wine, and drank it slowly.