owing; and things have come to such a pass that
either this accursed painter or myself must perish in the deadly
struggle!" And, wrought up to such a state of vigorous resolution as to
completely conquer his usual apathy, M. Pipelet seized the portrait of
Cabrion and rushed towards the door.

"Where are you going, Alfred?" screamed the wife.

"To the commissary of police, and, at the same time, to tear down that
vile board! Then, bearing the board in one hand and the portrait in the
other, I will cry aloud to the commissary, 'Defend, avenge an injured
man! Deliver me from Cabrion!'"

"So do, old darling! There, hold up your head and pluck up courage! And
I tell you what, if the board is too high for you to reach, ask the man
at the wine-shop to lend you his small ladder. That blackguard of a
Cabrion! I only wish I had him in my power, I'd fry him for half an hour
in my largest stew-pan! Why, scores of people have been publicly
executed who did not deserve death a quarter as much as he does! The
villain! I should like to see him just ready to have the guillotine
dropped upon his head. Wouldn't I give him my blessing in a friendly
way? A rascal!"

Alfred, amid all his woes, yet displayed a rare magnanimity, contrasting
strongly with the vindictive spirit of his partner.

"No, no," said he; "spite of the wrongs he has done me, I would not,
even if his life were in my power, 'demand his head!'"

"But I would! I would! I would!" vociferated the ferocious Anastasie.
"If he had fifty heads, I would demand every one of them! I would not
leave him one! But go along; make haste, Alfred, and set the commissary
of police to work upon him."

"No," cried Alfred, "I desire not his blood; but I have a right to
demand the perpetual imprisonment of this malicious being. My repose
requires it,--my health peremptorily calls for it. The laws of my
country must either grant me this reparation for all I have suffered, or
I quit France. Yes, beautiful and beloved France! I turn my back on you
for ever! And that is all an ungrateful nation would gain by neglecting
to heal the wounds of my tortured mind;" and, bending beneath the weight
of his grief, Alfred majestically quitted the lodge, like one of the
ancient victims of all-conquering Fatality.

CHAPTER XIV.

CECILY.

Before we introduce the reader to the conversation between Madame
Seraphin and Madame Pipelet, we must premise that Anastasie, without
entertaining the very