ANOTHER:
Faugh!. . .Another Gascon!
THE FIRST:
Ay, but the cold, supple Gascon—that is the stuff success is made of!
Believe me, we had best make our bow to him.
(They go toward De Guiche.)
SECOND MARQUIS:
What fine ribbons! How call you the color, Count de Guiche? ‘Kiss me, my
darling,’ or ‘Timid Fawn?’
DE GUICHE:
’Tis the color called ‘Sick Spaniard.’
FIRST MARQUIS:
’Faith! The color speaks truth, for, thanks to your valor, things will soon
go ill for Spain in Flanders.
DE GUICHE:
I go on the stage! Will you come?
(He goes toward the stage, followed by the marquises and gentlemen. Turning, he calls):
Come you Valvert!
CHRISTIAN (who is watching and listening, starts on hearing this name):
The Viscount! Ah! I will throw full in his face my. . .
(He puts his hand in his pocket, and finds there the hand of a pickpocket who is about to rob him. He turns round):
Hey?
THE PICKPOCKET:
Oh!
CHRISTIAN (holding him tightly):
I was looking for a glove.