What a scene for the young soldier, who loved in good truth!—he shuddered as he saw the kiss given; he rose, and drew himself up to his full height. "Thou hast replaced me too quickly, peasant!" cried he, in a thundering voice; and, to enforce his insulting words, he struck the young man a violent blow.
Heavens! how ready is pain to usurp the place of the sweetest pleasure! A kiss and a blow! glory and shame! light and darkness! fire and ice! life and death! heaven and hell!
All this shook the mind of Pascal; but when a man is insulted, he can revenge himself, though he is neither gentleman nor soldier. No. Look upon him! the tempest is not more fearful. His eyes dart lightning—thunder is in his voice—he raises his arm, and it descends upon Marcel like a bolt. In vain the soldier seeks to draw his sword—stands on his guard; Pascal, whose size seems to increase with fury, seizes him by his waist, strains him in his grasp, and, with a fierce gripe, forces him to the ground, where he dashes him, crushed and senseless.
"Hold!—the peasant grants your life!" cried Pascal, as he stood over him.
"Kill him!—you are wounded—you are all blood," exclaimed a hundred voices. Pascal's blood flowed, he knew not how.
"It is enough," he returned; "I pardon him now. The wicked man when defeated excites only pity."
"No, no—kill him, tear him to pieces," howled the enraged people.
"Back, peasants, back!" cried a knight, spurring forward, to whom every one gave way. It was Montluc, attracted to the spot by the tumult, as he was passing with the Baron of Roquefort.
But the fête was over—no more amusement: the young girls, terrified, fled like hares, two by two, from the spot; the young men surrounding Pascal—the handsome, brave Pascal—accompanied him on his way, as though it was his wedding-day. Marcel, furious and discomfited, struggled to renew the contest; but his lord's voice restrained him; a word of command silenced him: he ground his teeth with rage, and cried—
"They love each other,—they will do everything to thwart me. This will be but sport to her. 'Tis well; but by St. Marcel, my patron, they shall pay dear for this jesting, and Françonnette shall be mine, and none other's!"