e behavior of Dumay
made the whole scene terrifying to Butscha, to the Latournelles, and
above all to Madame Dumay, who knew her husband to be capable of firing
a pistol at Modeste's lover as coolly as though he were a mad dog.

After dinner that day the cashier had gone to walk followed by two
magnificent Pyrenees hounds, whom he suspected of betraying him, and
therefore left in charge of a farmer, a former tenant of Monsieur
Mignon. On his return, just before the arrival of the Latournelles,
he had taken his pistols from his bed's head and placed them on the
chimney-piece, concealing this action from Modeste. The young girl took
no notice whatever of these preparations, singular as they were.

Though short, thick-set, pockmarked, and speaking always in a low voice
as if listening to himself, this Breton, a former lieutenant in the
Guard, showed the evidence of such resolution, such sang-froid on his
face that throughout life, even in the army, no one had ever ventured
to trifle with him. His little eyes, of a calm blue, were like bits of
steel. His ways, the look on his face, his speech, his carriage, were
all in keeping with the short name of Dumay. His physical strength,
well-known to every one, put him above all danger of attack. He was able
to kill a man with a blow of his fist, and had performed that feat at
Bautzen, where he found himself, unarmed, face to face with a Saxon
at the rear of his company. At the present moment the usually firm
yet gentle expression of the man's face had risen to a sort of tragic
sublimity; his lips were pale as the rest of his face, indicating a
tumult within him mastered by his Breton will; a slight sweat, which
every one noticed and guessed to be cold, moistened his brow. The notary
knew but too well that these signs might result in a drama before the
criminal courts. In fact the cashier was playing a part in connection
with Modeste Mignon, which involved to his mind sentiments of honor and
loyalty of far greater importance than mere social laws; and his present
conduct proceeded from one of those compacts which, in case disaster
came of it, could be judged only in a higher court than one of earth.
The majority of dramas lie really in the ideas which we make to
ourselves about things. Events which seem to us dramatic are nothing
more than subjects which our souls convert into tragedy or comedy
according to the bent of our characters.

Madame Latournelle and Madame Dumay, who wer