This insult addressed to La Louve, whom he loved with savage ardour, triumphed over the pacific resolutions of Martial; he frowned, and the blood mounted to his cheeks, whilst the veins in his brow swelled and distended like cords. Still, he had so much control over himself as to say to Nicholas, in a voice slightly altered by his repressed wrath:
"Take care of yourself! You are trying to pick a quarrel, and you will find a bone to pick that will be too tough for you."
"A bone for me to pick?"
"Yes; and I'll thrash you more soundly than I did last time."
"What! Nicholas," said Calabash, with a sardonic grin, "did Martial thrash you? Did you hear that, mother? I'm not astonished that Nicholas is so afraid of him."
"He walloped me, because, like a coward, he took me off my guard," exclaimed Nicholas, turning pale with rage.
"You lie! You attacked me unexpectedly; I knocked you flat, and then showed you mercy. But if you talk of my mistress,—I say, mind you, of my mistress,—this time I look it over,—you shall carry my marks for many a long day."
"And suppose I choose to talk of La Louve?" inquired Calabash.
"Why, I'll pull your ears to put you on your guard; and if you begin again, why, so will I."
"And suppose I speak of her?" said the widow, slowly.