"I was dancing, monsieur le marié; my hand may have gone astray. If I did pinch her anywhere, I thought it was part of the figure, and——"
"Oh! that's a good one! that don't seem reasonable!"
"But, monsieur, you don't understand."
"You don't get off like that, bigre!" cried the fat man with the glassy eyes; "proofs! proofs! proofs!"
At that moment, to add to the uproar, a corpulent dame of at least sixty years of age, with a flat nose, smeared with snuff, her face encircled by a flaxen false front, the curls of which, artistically grouped in terraces, made her look as if she wore whiskers, and overladen with flowers, ribbons, lace, and false jewelry, appeared in the midst of the men, crying in a shrill voice:
"I don't want Pamphile to fight! I forbid him to fight! What's it all about? You shan't fight, Pamphile—I'd sooner fight myself, in my son's place. O my son, I'm your mother, or I ain't your mother! Monsieur's an intruder, a villain, a blackguard. Throw him out of doors! Call the watch!"
"No, madame, I am not a villain," retorted Balloquet, glaring savagely at the old woman, who was bedizened like a circus horse; "and I'll prove it."
"Go back to the ballroom, Madame Girie; this is no place for you; we don't need a woman's help to settle this business."
"I tell you, I don't want my son to fight!—Come, Pamphile, come back with me; don't get mixed up in this row."
"Oh! do let me alone, mamma! Go back with the other ladies."