And you believed that artillery officer?" said Mistigris, as slyly to
the count.

"Is that all?" asked Oscar.

"Of course he can't tell you that they cut his head off,--how could he?"
said Mistigris. "'Dead schinners tell no tales.'"

"Monsieur, are there farms in that country?" asked Pere Leger. "What do
they cultivate?"

"Maraschino," replied Mistigris,--"a plant that grows to the height of
the lips, and produces a liqueur which goes by that name."

"Ah!" said Pere Leger.

"I only stayed three days in the town and fifteen in prison," said
Schinner, "so I saw nothing; not even the fields where they grow the
maraschino."

"They are fooling you," said Georges to the farmer. "Maraschino comes in
cases."

"'Romances alter cases,'" remarked Mistigris.

CHAPTER V. THE DRAMA BEGINS

Pierrotin's vehicle was now going down the steep incline of the valley
of Saint-Brice to the inn which stands in the middle of the large
village of that name, where Pierrotin was in the habit of stopping an
hour to breathe his horses, give them their oats, and water them. It was
now about half-past one o'clock.

"Ha! here's Pere Leger," cried the inn-keeper, when the coach pulled up
before the door. "Do you breakfast?"

"Always once a day," said the fat farmer; "and I'll break a crust here
and now."

"Give us a good breakfast," cried Georges, twirling his cane in a
cavalier manner which excited the admiration of poor Oscar.

But that admiration was turned to jealousy when he saw the gay
adventurer pull out from a side-pocket a small straw case, from which
he selected a light-colored cigar, which he proceeded to smoke on the
threshold of the inn door while waiting for breakfast.

"Do you smoke?" he asked of Oscar.

"Sometimes," replied the ex-schoolboy, swelling out his little chest and
assuming a jaunty air.

Georges presented the open case to Oscar and Schinner.

"Phew!" said the great painter; "ten-sous cigars!"

"The remains of those I brought back from Spain," said the adventurer.
"Do you breakfast here?"

"No," said the artist. "I am expected at the chateau. Besides, I took
something at the Lion d'Argent just before starting."

"And you?" said Georges to Oscar.

"I have breakfasted," replied Oscar.

Oscar would have given ten years of his life for boots and straps to his
trousers. He sneezed, he coughed, he spat, and swallowed the smoke with
ill-disguised grimaces.

"You don't know how to smoke," said