“My love,” said the frisky one, “who is the gentleman in the black mask who stares?”
“I don’t know,” muttered the dear old man, in a cold sweat, “I don’t know, but I wish I did.”
And the frisky one shrugged her shoulders and smiled at the mask.
“What are they looking at?” whispered Yvonne, as she tripped along, holding very tightly to Gethryn’s arm.
“Only a quadrille—‘La Pataude’ is dancing. Do you want to see it?”
She nodded, and they approached the circle in the middle of which ‘La Pataude’ and ‘Grille d’Egout’ were holding high carnival. At every ostentatious display of hosiery the crowd roared.
“Brava! Bis!” cried an absinthe-soaked old gentleman; “vive La Pataude!”
For answer the lady dexterously raised his hat from his head with the point of her satin slipper.
The crowd roared again. “Brava! Brava, La Pataude!”
Yvonne turned away.