"Yes, better than the last."
"How? Nicholas," said Calabash, with well-feigned attachment, "has Martial beat you? I say, mother, do you hear? I am no more astonished that Nicholas is afraid of him."
"He whipped me, because he took me unawares," cried Nicholas, becoming pale with rage.
"You lie! You attacked me slyly, I kicked you, and I took pity on you, but if you undertake to speak again of La Louve—understand well, of my Louve—then I'll have no mercy—you shall carry my marks for a long time."
"And if I wish to speak of La Louve, I?" said Calabash.
"I will give you a couple of boxes just to warm you; and if you go on,
I'll go on to warm you."
"And if I speak of her?" said the widow, slowly.
"You?"
"Yes, me!"
"You?" said Martial, making a violent effort to contain himself, "you?"