"My friend, nous autres, we do not box like you, but we use the savate. Behold, then, what is the savate." And here M. Barbiche suddenly threw himself into the attitude of an enraged and aggressive monkey. "A ruffian, he strike me, P-r-r-r-r-r," and here M. Barbiche sprang suddenly high in air, and with one adroit and well-directed kick knocked off the hat of the astonished Spunyarn.
In the tohu bohu at Papayani's this singular action of M. Barbiche excited not the slightest surprise; he simply received a vociferous round of applause from the bystanders in his immediate neighbourhood. Excited by the success of his achievement, Barbiche for the moment forgot the Embassy, the Duc de la Houspignolle, and the proprieties; he had been wound up by Papayani's music, and by more than one glass of Papayani's champagne. The Frenchman became for the moment once more Le petit Furibon, the darling of the Closerie de Lilas, the champion of the Quartier Latin, the Elisha upon whose worthy shoulders had descended the mantle of the prophet, the vanished Caouchouc.
At this moment the strains of Arditi's immortal waltz, "Il Bacio," resounded through the place. The head of M. Barbiche kept time to the music, and he regarded the dancers with a scrutinizing gaze; his eye evidently sought Haggard and the mysterious shepherdess. As the ring of maskers which surrounded the space set apart for the dancers thinned, as numerous couples joined in the waltz, the watchful Frenchman was rewarded. "La voila, mon ami," he said, for Barbiche, when excited, forgot the English of which he was so proud.
Directly opposite Lord Spunyarn and his French friend stood Haggard and his shepherdess. She nestled at his side, clinging to his arm and gazing up into his eyes. The hood of the pale blue silk domino was now thrown back, disclosing a magnificent head of powdered hair; the complexion of the lady's neck and shoulders was dazzling, and evidently natural; her rounded arms had more of the Venus than the Juno about them; her figure, as she gazed up into Haggard's face, was seen to be perfection. The little foot beat time to the music of the waltz. But a black silk mask with a heavy fall of lace hid every feature, save a rounded chin and a pair of magnificent eyes, which seemed to be pleading to Haggard, and the shell-like ears in which blazed the diamond solitaires which had attracted the attention of the British "'Arry" in the street.
Haggard's face was suddenly lit up with pleasure, his arm slipped round the little waist, the left hand of the shepherdess was confidingly placed on the shoulder of her champion; they started and joined the numerous pairs whirling round to the music of "Il Bacio." Soon the couple excited attention, of which both seemed to be wholly unaware. Haggard, though he was a married man, was still a good dancer, and even here in a foreign ball-room, where, as a rule, the dancing Englishman is an object of ridicule, he distinguished himself. For Haggard, unlike most of the dancers present (at all events those of the male sex), was perfectly sober; not that the proverbially moderate Italians had exceeded in the use of their light but notoriously nasty wines, but an Italian easily becomes intoxicated, exalted, exhilarated, beside himself under the combined influences of a Carnival ball, the lights, the perfumes, the music, the dancing, and above all the eyes of his inamorata. Can we blame Petrarch for being cheerful when Laura smiles? But no Italian present was in so exalted a state as M. Barbiche of the French Embassy, once so well known as Le petit Furibon, of the Latin Quarter.
As the pairs gradually dropped out, Haggard and his partner became the cynosure of every eye. In vain did Pasquino whirl his Contadina with the ruddled cheeks, varying his saltatory gymnastics with an occasional scream; in vain did young Mr. Simon E. Brown, that very rough diamond from New York city, who had come to Europe for polish, and was undergoing the process (in the costume of one of the Wise Men of Gotham who went to sea in a bowl) at the hands of the Signorina Esperanza, of the Scala, or any of the motley crew, attempt to attract the public gaze: every eye was riveted with admiration on the shepherdess, that is to say, every male eye; the female organs of vision turned from her in disgust, to admire or criticize her partner, and in the end to feel dissatisfied with their own peculiar victims. For if the masked shepherdess turned the heads of most of those present, Haggard was undeniably the best-looking man in the vast arena. But even the strength of a muscular English dancing man must give way at length to the power of an Italian waltz played fast at past midnight. As for his partner, I believe she could have gone on for ever, but she had perceived that they were attracting attention; she discreetly drew the hood of her pale blue silk domino over her head and hid herself in the recesses of that mysterious garment. As ill luck would have it, the pair pulled up close to the excited Furibon.
"Ah, mon vieux," cried the Frenchman, advancing with extended hands, "you have rejoiced our eyes. Ah, gredin," whispered Furibon, as he indiscreetly poked his friend in the ribs.
"Ta ta, old man, I must be off," replied Haggard with a frown, as the shepherdess clung in evident trepidation to his arm. "For God's sake, Shirtings, take him away, or there'll be a row," muttered Haggard to his friend below his breath, his white teeth showing beneath his black moustache in a menacing manner.
The crowd of revellers was thick around them. Barbiche was, as we know, a gentleman, but our ideas of courtesy are not a Frenchman's, and, as has been said before, he had ceased to be Mr. Barbiche the viveur, for the moment he was Furibon, the daring Furibon of former days.
"Saperlotte," he hissed, and his out-stretched hand touched the pale blue domino on the shoulder.