“May the sins of his fathers be forgiven him for this act!” said the cure.

Patience took me by the arm, without saying anything, and led me nearer the fire.  They seated me on the only chair in the house, and the cure took upon himself the task of attending to my leg, while Edmee gave an account, up to a certain point, of our adventure.  Then she asked for information about the hunt and about her father.  Patience, however, could give her no news.  He had heard the horn in the woods, and the firing at the wolves had disturbed his tranquility several times during the day.  But since the storm broke over them the noise of the wind had drowned all other sounds, and he knew nothing of what was taking place in Varenne.  Marcasse, meanwhile, had very nimbly climbed a ladder which served as an approach to the upper stories of the house, now that the staircase was broken.  His dog followed him with marvellous skill.  Soon they came down again, and we learned that a red light could be distinguished on the horizon in the direction of Roche-Mauprat.  In spite of the loathing I had for this place and its owners, I could not repress a feeling very much like consternation on hearing that the hereditary manor which bore my own name had apparently been taken and set on fire.  It meant disgrace, defeat; and this fire was as a seal of vassalage affixed to my arms by those I called clodhoppers and serfs.  I sprang up from my chair, and had I not been held back by the violent pain in my foot, I believe I should have rushed out.

“What is the matter?” said Edmee, who was by my side at the time.

“The matter is,” I answered abruptly, “that I must return yonder; for it is my duty to get killed rather than let my uncles parley with the rabble.”

“The rabble!” cried Patience, addressing me for the first time since I arrived.  “Who dares to talk of rabble here?  I myself am of the rabble.  It is my title, and I shall know how to make it respected.”

“By Jove!  Not by me,” I said, pushing away the cure, who had made me sit down again.

“And yet it would not be for the first time,” replied Patience, with a contemptuous smile.

“You remind me,” I answered, “that we two have some old accounts to settle.”

And heedless of the frightful agony caused by my sprain, I rose again, and with a backhander I sent Don Marcasse, who was endeavouring the play the cure’s part of peacemaker, head over heels into the middle of the ashes.  I did not mean him any harm, but my movements were somewhat rough, and the poor man was so frail that to my hand he was but as a weasel would have been to his own.  Patience was standing before me with his arms crossed, in the attitude of a stoic philosopher, but the fire was flashing in his eyes.  Conscious of his position as my host, he was evidently waiting until I struck the first blow before attempting to crush me.  I should not have kept him waiting long, had not Edmee, scorning the danger of interfering with a madman, seized my arm and said, in an authoritative tone: