Soon they were able to distinguish his features.

"It is Chanlouineau!" exclaimed M. Lacheneur.

"The owner of the vineyards on the Borderie?"

"The same! The handsomest young farmer in the country, and the best
also. Ah! he has good blood in his veins; we may well be proud of him."

"Ask him to stop," said M. d'Escorval.

Lacheneur leaned over the balustrade, and, forming a trumpet out of his
two hands, he called:

"Oh! Chanlouineau!"

The robust young farmer raised his head.

"Come up," shouted Lacheneur; "the baron wishes to speak with you."

Chanlouineau responded by a gesture of assent. They saw him enter
the gate, cross the garden, and at last appear at the door of the
drawing-room.

His features were distorted with fury, his disordered clothing gave
evidence of a serious conflict. His cravat was gone, and his torn
shirt-collar revealed his muscular throat.

"Where is this fighting?" demanded Lacheneur eagerly; "and with whom?"