Twice to save himself from being pulled over he had to rise and
fling her off. He did this stoically, without a word, kneeling down
again at once to go on with his work. But the third time, his work being
done, he seized her and held her arms pinned to her body. Her cap was
half off, her face was red, her eyes blazed with crazy boldness. He
looked mildly into them while she called him a wretch, a traitor, and a
murderer many times in succession. This did not annoy him so much as the
conviction that she had managed to scratch his face abundantly. Ridicule
would be added to the scandal of the story. He imagined the adorned tale
making its way through the garrison of the town, through the whole army
on the frontier, with every possible distortion of motive and sentiment
and circumstance, spreading a doubt upon the sanity of his conduct and
the distinction of his taste even to the very ears of his honourable
family. It was all very well for that fellow Feraud, who had no
connections, no family to speak of, and no quality but courage, which,
anyhow, was a matter of course, and possessed by every single trooper
in the whole mass of French cavalry.
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