“My sister Louise––where is she?” she pleaded. “Quick! Please let me go to her––don’t you understand? She is BLIND!” 30 Sobs almost choked the little voice. “She cannot take a SINGLE STEP without me!”
De Vaudrey looked up to see the tiny creature running hither and yon, asking the laughing gentlemen for help, repulsing Praille’s embraces, fending off the other satyr who would drown her sorrows in fizz. If this were play-acting, it excelled the finest efforts of Adrienne Lecouvreur! De Praille had now grasped her firmly by the waist and shoulders, his sensual breath was on her cheek, a last cry escaped her:
“Among all these noblemen, is there not ONE MAN OF HONOR?”
The despairing outcry pierced the Chevalier’s shallow cynicism, touching the finer feelings that had lain dormant.
He sprang to her side, dashed de Praille’s arms from her exquisite form. Then, facing his bewildered host, he said in calm even tones to the girl:
“Come, Mademoiselle, we will leave this place.”
Suiting the word to the action, he offered his arm to Henriette and started to go. With a fury restrained only by conventional 31 usages, de Praille was across their path and barred the way with his wand.
“This is my house,” he said hoarsely, “and I will not permit this insult!” As he spoke, the chimes sounded midnight. “Do you hear? After twelve o’clock, no one ever leaves Bel-Air!”
For answer de Vaudrey dashed aside the extended wand, escorted the kidnapped girl to the foot of the staircase. De Praille was upon them again. This time he drew his sword. Fascinated, the courtiers and their women companions watched the outcome.
Gently shielding Henriette behind him, de Vaudrey drew. Stroke and counterstroke and parry of rapiers and lightning-like motion glinted in the air. Henriette was the affrighted center of the fashionable group that, according to the custom of that time, awaited the issue of the duel without intervening.