“He will. He will not.”
My father took a step forward, and to me he seemed a very giant. Alone among them all, it was he who spread terror. In that clear voice that I so well knew, the voice that moved Tem Bossette in the depths of his vines and brought the whole household together in an instant, he said:
“Do you wish me to knock off your hat with my cane, Monsieur Martinod? For my hand will never touch you again.”
This time the laughs ceased. The case was becoming tragic: one might have heard a spider spinning her web. Grandfather saved the situation.
“Come, Martinod,” he said; “one must be polite.”
“Then it’s for you, Father Rambert,” Martinod replied, suddenly uncovering. His face was bloodless, and no one could doubt of his defeat.
My father, having conquered, turned to Casenave, lost in his dreams.
“You, too, friend, would do well to go home.”
The terrified Casenave cried in a melancholy voice which broke the tension, so droll did it seem.
“I haven’t been drinking, Doctor. I swear I haven’t.”