He addressed the eldest of the group, a handsome man of twenty-six, with fierce-looking eyes, and a heavy black mustache, named Jules Lazet.

“Repeat, if you dare,” he said, in a voice trembling with passion, “the remark you just now made!”

“I certainly will repeat it,” said Lazet, calmly.  “I said, and I say it again, that a nobleman’s daughter is no better than a mechanic’s daughter; that virtue does not always accompany a titled name.”

“You mentioned a particular name!”

Lazet rose from his chair as if he knew his answer would exasperate Gaston, and that from words they would come to blows.

“I did,” he said, with an insolent smile:  “I mentioned the name of the pretty little fairy of La Verberie.”

All the coffee-drinkers, and even two travelling agents who were dining in the cafe, rose and surrounded the two young men.

The provoking looks, the murmurs, or rather shouts, which welcomed him as he walked up to Lazet, proved to Gaston that he was surrounded by enemies.

The wickedness and evil tongue of the old marquis were bearing their fruit.  Rancor ferments quickly and fiercely among the people of Provence.

Gaston de Clameran was not a man to yield, even if his foes were a hundred, instead of fifteen or twenty.

“No one but a coward,” he said, in a clear, ringing voice, which the pervading silence rendered almost startling, “no one but a contemptible coward would be infamous enough to calumniate a young girl who has neither father nor brother to defend her honor.”

“If she has no father or brother,” sneered Lazet, “she has her lovers, and that suffices.”

The insulting words, “her lovers,” enraged Gaston beyond control; he slapped Lazet violently in the face.

Everyone in the cafe simultaneously uttered a cry of terror.  Lazet’s violence of character, his herculean strength and undaunted courage, were well known.  He sprang across the table between them, and seized Gaston by the throat.  Then arose a scene of excitement and confusion.  Clameran’s friend, attempting to assist him, was knocked down with billiard-cues, and kicked under a table.

Equally strong and agile, Gaston and Lazet struggled for some minutes without either gaining an advantage.

Lazet, as loyal as he was courageous, would not accept assistance from his friends.  He continually called out: 

“Keep away; let me fight it out alone!”

But the others were too excited to remain inactive spectators of the scene.

“A quilt!” cried one of them, “a quilt to make the marquis jump!”

Five or six young men now rushed upon Gaston, and separated him from Lazet.  Some tried to throw him down, others to trip him up.

He defended himself with the energy of despair, exhibiting in his furious struggles a strength of which he himself had not been conscious.  He struck right and left as he showered fierce epithets upon his adversaries for being twelve against one.