"One minute you say she is pretty and the next you say she is very ugly; you don't seem to know what you are saying, Monsieur Chaudoreille."
"One can easily lose his wits when near you, beautiful damsel; but, by that sword, I swear to you—"
The bell at the garden gate was heard, Chaudoreille stopped; presuming that it was the marquis and that it would perhaps be dangerous for him to be surprised in a tête-à-tête with Julia, he escaped by the first pathway and ran to rejoin Marcel, while the young Italian listened anxiously and her cheeks assumed a more vivid color.
Marcel opened the door, but it was not the marquis, it was Touquet, who came alone.
"Your master fought a duel last night," said he to Marcel, "he was wounded, but very slightly, it seems. I have come to speak to the young girl. She is perhaps anxious to know what all this means. Where is she now?"
"In the garden," said Chaudoreille, "but I assure you she is not at all lonely here. It is true that I have chatted with her—"
"And who gave you permission to do so? You're very bold to converse with a woman on whom a marquis has laid his eyes."
"Yes, I confess that I am very bold—but I believe you say that monseigneur fought a duel; do you know with whom he fought?"
"Idiot! Is that our business? Do you suppose I asked him?"
"It's true, it's not our business, but—"