"There's been a shindy at the 'Red Eagle' tavern," she said. "That
father-in-law of M'sieu' Jean Jacques and Rocque Valescure, the landlord,
they got at each other's throats. Dolores hit Valescure on the head with
a bottle."

"He didn't kill Valescure, did he?"

"Not that--no. But Valescure is hurt bad--as bad. It was six to one and
half a dozen to the other--both no good at all. But of course they'll
arrest the old man--your great friend! He'll not give you any more fur-
robes, that's sure. He got away from the tavern, though, and he's hiding
somewhere. M'sieu' Jean Jacques can't protect him now; he isn't what he
once was in the parish. He's done for, and old Dolores will have to go
to trial. They'll make it hot for him when they catch him. No more fur-
robes from your Spanish friend, Virginie ! You'll have to look somewhere
else for your beaux, though to be sure there are enough that'd be glad to
get you with that farm of yours, and your thrifty ways, if you keep your
character."

Virginie was quite quiet now. The asperity and suggestiveness of the
other's speech produced a cooling effect upon her.

"Better hurry, Mere Langlois, or everybody won't hear your story before
sundown. If your throat gets tired, there's Brown's Bronchial Troches--"
She pointed to an advertisement on the fence near by. "M. Fille's cook
says they cure a rasping throat."

With that shot, Virginie Poucette whipped up her horses and drove on.
She did not hear what Mere Langlois called after her, for Mere Langlois
had been slow to recover from the unexpected violence dealt by one whom