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have achieved in the past.…”
    Below them there was a sudden outburst which drew them, surprised, back to the balustrade.
    Guérante had just fallen, entirely through his own fault, and, furious, he hurled insults at the younger Delormel. Pale, the other withstood the outburst without responding: he was only a commoner while his student was of the nobility, and therefore both protected and permitted to do as he pleased.
    “Enough,” said La Fargue after a moment. “That will do.”
    He walked down the staircase with a determined step while the gentleman struggled back to his feet and continued to howl. La Fargue seized him by the collar, forced him out of the room ignoring his thrashings, dragged him across the courtyard in front of Justine, who watched with huge round eyes, and threw him out into the street. Guérante measured his length in a patch of mud through which one would hesitate to walk, to the great delight of passersby.
    Livid, stinking, and dripping with muck and urine, the braggart pushed himself up and would have stripped off his soiled outer layers ready to fight. But La Fargue froze him in place with a movement of an index finger, pointing at Guérante’s chest.
    “Monsieur,” he said to him, in too calm a voice not to be threatening. “I am a gentleman and therefore do not have to put up with either your whims or your poor temper. If you would draw your sword, do so, and you shall learn with whom you speak.”
    Guérante hesitated, changed his mind, and returned the two inches of steel he had drawn in the heat of the moment to their scabbard.
    “Another thing, monsieur,” added the captain. “If you are religious, pray. Pray that my friend Delormel does not come to any misadventure. Pray that no one bothers either his clients or his family. Pray that petty thieves do not come in the night and plunder his school or his home. Pray that he does not receive a beating on a street corner.… Because I shall learn of it. And without any further consideration, I shall find you and I shall kill you, monsieur de Guérante. Do we understand each other?”
    Mortified and covered in slurry, the other made an effort to recover his dignity. There were spectators watching and mocking him, and he did not want to lose face entirely.
    “This business,” he promised, puffing himself up. “This affair does not end here.”
    “It does,” La Fargue shot back, harsh and inflexible.
    “We shall see!”
    “This business is finished here and now if you do not draw your sword, monsieur.…”
    His terrible gaze plunged Guérante into the deepest pit of fear.
    “Well?” he demanded.
    Delormel and his son waited for La Fargue in the courtyard. His wife, pale and worried, watched from the threshold of the main building, Justine pressed against her skirts.
    “Let’s eat,” said the captain, as he returned.
    His rapier had never left its scabbard.

7
     
    In the kitchen of the Vaudreuil manor, a woman in an apron and a large serge skirt scrubbed a series of copper saucepans.
    Her name was Marion.
    Sitting at the end of a large oak table worn smooth by old age and hard use, she turned her back to the hearth where small flames gently heated the blackened bottom of a pot. Drying herbs, a string of garlic, and some earthenware pots decorated the chimneypiece. A door which stood open onto the courtyard allowed tiny dust particles to enter which, carried by a light breeze, sparkled in the spring air. Pieces of straw were scattered on the floor as far as the threshold.
    A horse could be heard approaching at a fast trot. It frightened the hens, which squawked and fluttered their wings, and when it neighed a dog responded excitedly, barking from the end of its chain. Iron-shod boots struck the hard earth with a jingle of spurs. Steps approached and Agnès de Vaudreuil ducked her head as she came through the low door.
    Seeing the young baronne arrive, Marion greeted her with a warm smile and a disapproving glance, a subtle