‘Mademoiselle des Urlis is labouring under a misconception,’ said Marotte, with provoking coolness. ‘She mistakes the green room for the Halles,[12] and monsieur for an old admirer. It is a souvenir she presents to you, monsieur,’ she added, turning to the indignant Jean.
‘Fourbe!’ exclaimed Estelle. ‘Do not imagine I shall submit to your impertinence as I have done.’
‘Impertinence! Take care, mademoiselle,’ was Marotte’s rejoinder.
‘Tiens!’ rapidly retorted Estelle. ‘Voilà pour toi!’
And she slapped Marotte’s face, so that the room rang with the blow. Fortunately the crowd was gathered round La Molière, and did not heed what was passing at the opposite end of the apartment.
‘A blow!’ cried Marotte, springing forward; ‘this must be accounted for.’ And whilst Jean gazed open-mouthed and utterly bewildered, she walked up to Estelle, and in a half whisper said, ‘You can use a sword: unless you are a coward as well as a coquette meet me, when the comedy is over, on the Tapis Vert, opposite the fountain of Latona. Bring a woman for your second.’
‘Soit,’ said Estelle; ‘I ask nothing better. This struggle must finish sooner or later.’
At this moment the ‘call-boy,’ putting his head into the room, shouted, with the shrill nasal twang peculiar to his class, ‘Ma’amselle Dupré—Ma’amselle des Urlis!’ and the rivals, obeying the summons, passed on to the stage arm-in-arm, radiant with ready smiles, and commenced a most friendly dialogue. Jean, who heard the challenge imperfectly, could hardly believe his ears. He was too averse to fighting himself to believe in the possibility of women resorting to this plan of adjusting a quarrel—which, strange as it may appear to modern minds, was by no means without a parallel in the days of Louis XIV. However, it is probable he would have taken some step to prevent such a consummation, had he not been seized upon by the persevering abbe, who, drawing him into a corner of the room, contrived to wedge him there with fauteuils whilst he read his new poem. Poor Jean groaned, and winced, and yawned, and sneezed, but in vain. On went the flow of the abbe’s rounded verse. He knew the value of a victim; and in the vernacular of the nineteenth century was determined to take it out of him. Meanwhile the play had terminated, and the guests who were admitted to the honour had sought the Bosquet de Bal, where the orchestra was vigorously giving out the newest minuets and gavottes, under the experienced leadership of Lulli.
The Tapis Vert—the scene of the actresses’ rendezvous—was a wide alley of smooth green turf, bordered by statues, fronting the terrace of the chateau, and the magnificent fountain of Latona. All the guests of the fete had been attracted towards the salle de danse, and the only sounds that mingled with the distant fanfare of the band were the sighing of the gusty autumn wind as it swept through the long avenues, whirling the reddening leaves to the ground, and the plashing of the numerous fountains.
There were two figures standing near one of the statues, and throwing their shadows athwart the moonlight: they were Marotte Dupré and Louise Gauthier, who, at the request of her friend, had accompanied her, without any knowledge of what was to take place. Marotte was in her stage dress, over which she wore a roquelaure.