Gaston's large, solid body, strong face, and penetrating eyes were not to be sneered out of sight.

The Frenchman, an envious, disappointed artist, had had in his mind a bloodless duel, to give a fillip to an unacquired fame.

He had, however, been drinking.

He flung an insolent glance to meet Gaston's steady look, and said: "The cock crows of his dunghill!" Gaston looked at the landlord, then got up calmly and walked down the table.

The Frenchman, expecting he knew not what, sprang to his feet, snatching up a knife; but Gaston was on him like a hawk, pinioning his arms and lifting him off the ground, binding his legs too, all so tight that the Frenchman squealed for breath.
"Monsieur," said Gaston to the landlord, "from the door or the window ?" The landlord was pale.