tion of intense
alarm that Madame Pipelet, spite of her usual courage and
self-possession, could not help feeling a dread of--she knew not what.
She staggered back a few steps, then, seizing Alfred by the hand,
exclaimed:

"Cabrion!"

"I know it!" groaned forth M. Pipelet, in a deep, hollow voice, shutting
his eyes to exclude the frightful spectre.

Nothing could have borne more flattering tribute to the talent which had
so admirably delineated the features of Cabrion than the overwhelming
terror his pasteboard likeness occasioned to the worthy couple in the
lodge; but the first surprise of Anastasie over, she, bold as a lioness,
rushed to the bed, sprang upon it, and, though not without some
trepidation, tore the painting from the wall, against which it had been
nailed; then, crowning her valiant deed by her accustomed favourite
expression, the amazon triumphantly exclaimed:

"Get along with you!"

Alfred, on the contrary, remained with closed eyes and extended hands,
fixed and motionless, according to his wont during the most critical
passages of his life; the continued oscillation of his bell-crowned hat
alone revealing, from time to time, the violence of his internal
emotions.

"Open your eyes, my old duck!" cried Madame Pipelet, triumphantly. "It
is nothing to be afraid of, only a picture, a portrait of that scoundrel
Cabrion. Look here, lovey,--look at 'Stasie stamping on it!" continued
the indignant wife, throwing the painting on the ground, and jumping
upon it with all her force; then added, "Ah, I wish I had the villain
here, to serve the same! I'll warrant I'd mark him for life!" Then,
picking up the portrait, she said, "Well, I've served you out, anyhow!
Just look, old dear, if I haven't!"

But poor Alfred, with a disconsolate shake of the head, made signs that
he had rather not, and further intimating, by expressive gestures, his
earnest desire that his wife would remove the detested likeness of his
bitter foe far from his view.

"Well," cried the porteress, examining the portrait by the aid of the
lamp, "was there ever such imperance? Why, Alfred, the vile feller has
presumed to write in red letters at the bottom of the picture, 'To my
dear friend Pipelet; presented by his friend for life, Cabrion!'"

"For life!" groaned Pipelet; then, heaving a deep sigh, he added, "Yes,
'tis my life he aims at; and he will finish by taking it. I shall exist,
from this day forward, in a state of continual alarm