“As soon as Jacques’s business is over. We shall find you, then, in Notre Dame?”
“In Notre Dame.”
Dollier de Casson made the sign of benediction, and let them pass.
When Dollard strode into the lower bazar it was boiling in turmoil around two wrangling men who had laid claim on one maid. The most placid girls from the remotest benches left their seats to tiptoe and look over each other’s shoulders at the demure prize, who, though she kept her eyes upon the floor and tried to withdraw her wrists from both suitors, laughed slyly.
“It is that Madeleine,” the outer girls who were not quarreled over whispered to each other with shrugs. But all the men in delight urged on the fray, uttering partisan cries, “She is thine, brave Picot!” “Keep to thy rights, my little Jean Debois!” to the distress of Madame Bourdon. She spread her hands before the combatants, she commanded them to be at peace and hear her, but they would not have her for their Solomon.
“I made my proposals, madame,” cried one. “I but stepped to the notary’s table an instant, when comes this renegade from the woods and snatches my bride. Madame, he hath no second pair of leather breeches. Is he a fit man to espouse a wife? The king must needs support his family. Ah, let me get at thee with my fist, thou hound of Indian camps!”
“Come on, peasant,” swelled the coureur de bois. “I’ll show thee how to ruffle at thy master. Mademoiselle has taken me for her husband. She but engaged thee as a servant.”
The two men sprang at each other, but were restrained by their delighted companions.
“Holy saints!” gasped Madame Bourdon, “must the governor be sent for to silence these rioters? My good men, there are a hundred and fifty girls to choose from.”