And Aglaia and Louise and Olga again uttered a chorus of shrieks, and pretended to faint.
But de Meneval had troubles of his own to attend to then. He walked over to where Léontine sat, and assuming an air of forced jollity, such as a man puts on when he anticipates a wigging from the wife of his bosom, said:
“Delighted you happened to arrive, my love—and what do you think of the Pouters?”
“I think they are very jolly girls,” promptly replied Léontine; “but as I am another uninvited guest, I thought it best to tell Major Fallière and the others that I, too, am a singer and dancer—Satanita, I called myself, on the spur of the moment.”
De Meneval turned from green to blue. “And you did not immediately inform them that you are my wife?” he hissed, in a savage whisper.
“No,” coolly replied Léontine, “and when Papa Bouchard recognized me, I declared I had never seen him before. I am little Satanita—good name, isn’t it?—for this evening.”
De Meneval, enraged and disconcerted beyond words, felt helpless. Suppose he were to proclaim the truth? Léontine, as if answering the thought in his mind, whispered, with cruel glee:
“And if you say I am your wife I shall simply deny it. Satanita I am and Satanita I shall be, and I shall live up to the part—of that you may be sure.”
De Meneval was in doubt whether to shoot himself. And then there was a move toward the table. The girls were dragging Papa Bouchard forward, who, still very angry, was yet not insensible to their pretty and mischievous wiles. Léontine, running up to Major Fallière, demanded that he sit next her at table, while de Meneval found himself sitting opposite Léontine, and with indescribable feelings saw her drink champagne, as he supposed, by the tumblerful. Fallière had cleverly got hold of the two bottles of apollinaris, and filled Léontine’s glass with the greatest assiduity.