Far from giving in, Franconnette confuses, tires him, till his breath is gone; passion exhausts him as much as her swiftness; his face becomes crimson--he is ready to fall--he gives in.
On goes the dance--Pascal stands in his place; he has scarcely made two steps, and changed sides, when his pretty partner smiles, reels, pauses; she is tired out, and she turns her blushing cheek to him--oh! she did not wait long for his kiss.
Instantly a shout is heard--clapping of hands in all directions: all plaudits for Pascal, who stands confused and abashed.
What a scene for the young soldier, who loved in good truth!--he shuddered as he saw the kiss given; he rose, and drew himself up to his full height.

"Thou hast replaced me too quickly, peasant!" cried he, in a thundering voice; and, to enforce his insulting words, he struck the young man a violent blow.
Heavens! how ready is pain to usurp the place of the sweetest pleasure! A kiss and a blow! glory and shame! light and darkness! fire and ice! life and death! heaven and hell! All this shook the mind of Pascal; but when a man is insulted, he can revenge himself, though he is neither gentleman nor soldier.No.

Look upon him! the tempest is not more fearful.

His eyes dart lightning--thunder is in his voice--he raises his arm, and it descends upon Marcel like a bolt.

In vain the soldier seeks to draw his sword--stands on his guard; Pascal, whose size seems to increase with fury, seizes him by his waist, strains him in his grasp, and, with a fierce gripe, forces him to the ground, where he dashes him, crushed and senseless.
"Hold!--the peasant grants your life!" cried Pascal, as he stood over him.
"Kill him!--you are wounded--you are all blood," exclaimed a hundred voices.