Then, as he espied the crimson ridge across the secretary's
countenance, "Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, "what have you done to
yourself, Caron?"

"Pish! It is nothing," answered La Boulaye hurriedly, and would
have had the subject dismissed, but that one of the onlooking
peasants swore by the memory of some long-dead saint that it was the
cut of a whip. Duhamel's eyes kindled and his parchment-like skin
was puckered into a hundred evil wrinkles.

"Who did it, Caron?" he demanded.

"Since you insist, old master," answered the secretary, still
endeavouring to make light of it, "learn that is the lord Marquis's
signature to his order of my dismissal from his service."

"The dog!" ejaculated the school-master.

"Sh! let it be. Perhaps I braved him overmuch. I will tell you of
it when these good folks have gone. Do not let us cast a gloom over
their happiness, old master. And now to embrace this good Charlot."

Though inwardly burning with curiosity and boiling with indignation,
Duhamel permitted himself to be guided by La Boulaye, and for the
moment allowed the matter to rest. La Boulaye himself laughingly
set aside the many questions with which they pressed him. He drank
the health of the bride-elect - who was not yet of the party - and
he pledged the happiness of the pair. He embraced Charlot, and even
went so far as to urge upon him, out of his own scanty store, a
louis d'or with which to buy Marie a trinket in memory of him.