‘You will be clever to do it,’ observed a bystander. ‘The Count de Chavagnac has ruined us this night.’
‘A new gown of ruby velvet à longues manches, at the next Foire Sainte Germain, for me, if you win, Chavagnac,’ said one of the handsomest of the women.
‘You shall have it, Marotte,’ replied the Count.
‘What do you promise me, M. de Sainte-Croix, for old friendship?’ continued Marotte Dupré—for it was she—turning to Gaudin. ‘Let it be a kiss, if it be nothing else.’
Gaudin looked towards her, and pressed her arm, as he contracted his forehead, and made a sign of silence. He felt a sudden shudder pass over the frame of the Marchioness; and when he turned round, her eyes glared like a fury’s through her mask. She withdrew her arm and coldly fell back as she whispered—
‘My eyes are being opened anew. Beware!’
Gaudin was for the instant annoyed and returned no answer. Marotte Dupré had not taken the hint, and continued—
‘You owe me something on the score of your conduct when Antoine Brinvilliers carried me to the Rue d’Enfer against my will. By the way, where is his wife, Dubois? You know the secrets of every woman in our good city.’
This was addressed to the Abbe Dubois, whose name as a gallant, either on his own part or that of the King, was pretty well established.
‘Where she should be—quietly at home,’ replied the abbe. ‘Brinvilliers is on his travels. He is another man since she left him, or he left her, or they left one another. How is it, M. de Sainte-Croix?—you ought to know.’