“Hey, hey, hey,” cried the shepherds good-naturedly, “where are our cakes to-day?”
Marquet gave them one scornful glance. “I’m not selling to country folk,” said he. “My cakes are for the King.”
“Come, come, Marquet,” said one of the shepherds named Forgier, taking the horse’s bridle. “We’ve bought your cakes too many years to be treated this way. Here’s your money; now give us our cakes.”
Marquet rose up insolently. “Take your cakes!” he cried. “Take your cakes!” And with that he gave Forgier two great lashes across the face.
Out came Forgier’s stout oak cudgel. One blow, and Marquet reeled back senseless.
By that time the other bakers had driven up, and seeing Marquet fall, they set on the shepherds with their whips.
“Bumpkins! Boobies!” they shouted. “We’ll teach you to strike a cake-baker!”
But the shepherds replied so sturdily with their crooks and cudgels that it was not long before the bakers were glad to jump into their carts again, and drive as fast as they could back toward Lerné.