Brent went on hammering.
Then he saw the top of the ladder give a jerk, and he was round in a flash. Bibi had one foot on the third rung, and the two men stared at each other.
“Look here,” said Brent, still smiling, “you keep off that ladder. I have had nothing to do with that chimney of yours.”
“Liar!” shouted the Frenchman.
Brent gave a French shrug.
“It’s the truth; take it or leave it. But get off that ladder.”
Bibi began to climb up, and Brent bent down, gripped the top rung, and held the ladder out from the wall.
“Look here, if you try to come up, I’ll pitch you over.”
Bibi did try, and Brent kept his promise. Man and ladder went over into the road, Bibi lying like a big beetle with the thing on top of him. He slipped from under it, got up, and began to behave like a madman. He picked up the ladder, dashed it against the raised path so that it broke in the middle, and then went on to kick it to pieces with his heavy boots. He was like a wild animal that had lost all control and all sense of pain, and Brent sat and watched him with something of the feeling of a man who is safe in the branches of a tree. He understood now why Manon had looked so serious when she had spoken of Louis Blanc. The fellow could behave like a beast, and he had the strength of a beast. Brent had ceased to smile.
“I shall want a long spoon,” he reflected, “a devilish long spoon. Life in Beaucourt is going to be hot stuff.”