‘That is furiously well turned, Vicomte. Really it deserves to be put to the torture.’
‘Yes, because it is a danger to the kingdom, it debases the coinage.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it generates tender emotions in so many vulgar bosoms turning thus the fine gold of Cupid into a base alloy!’
‘Bravo! Comte, tu as de l’esprit infiniment.’
During this bout of wit, the company had been quite silent, trying hard to look amused, and in the picture.
‘My friends, would you oblige us with the air of a Corante?’ the Vicomte called out with a familiar wink to the ‘Four Fiddles,’ with whom it behoved every fashionable gallant to be on intimate terms. The ‘Fiddles’ with an answering wink, started the tune of this new and most fashionable dance.
‘Ah! I breathe again!’ cried the little Marquis. They then proceeded to choose various ladies as partners, discussing their points, as if they had been horses at a Fair. The one they called Comte, a tall, military looking man, chose Marguerite Troguin, at which Brillon tried to assert himself by blustering out that the lady was his partner. But the Comte only looked him up and down, with an expression of unutterable disgust, and turning to the Marquis, asked: ‘What is this thing?’ Brillon subsided.
Then they started the absurd Corante. The jumping steps were performed on tip-toe, and punctuated by countless bows and curtseys. There was a large audience, as very few of the company had yet learned it. When it was over, it was greeted with enthusiastic applause.
The courtiers proceeded to refresh themselves with Hippocras and lemonade. Suddenly the little Marquis seized the cloak of the Comte, and piped out in an excited voice:—