"Mademoiselle," said the vicomte eagerly, "I swear to you, that your voice is familiar to my ears." He addressed the black mask, but he looked searchingly at the grey. His reward was small. She maintained under his scrutiny an icy, motionless dignity.
"And permit me to say," returned the black mask, "that while your voice is not familiar, the tone is, and very displeasing to my ears. And if you do not at once resume your seat, I shall be forced to ask aid of yonder priest."
"Yes, yes! that voice I have heard before!" Then, quick as a flash, he had plucked the strings of her mask, disclosing a round, piquant face, now white with fury.
"Oh, Monsieur!" she cried; "if I were a man!"
"This grows interesting," whispered Bouchard to Du Puys.
"Anne de Vaudemont?" exclaimed the vicomte; "in Rochelle?" The vicomte stepped back confused. He stared undecidedly at mademoiselle's companion. She deliberately turned her back.
Victor was upon his feet, and his bottle of wine lay frothing on the floor. He came forward.
"Vicomte, your actions are very disagreeable to me," he said. The end of his scabbard was aggressively high in the air. He was not so tall a man as the vicomte, but his shoulders were as broad and his chest as deep.
Neither the vicomte nor the poet heard the surprised exclamation which came with a muffled sound from behind the grey mask. She swayed slightly. The younger threw her arms around her, but never took her eyes from the flushed countenance of Victor de Saumaise.
"Indeed!" replied the vicomte coolly; "and how do you account for that?" He spoke with that good nature which deceives only those who are not banterers themselves.