VINTIMILLE. An enemy? But why? Really, were you fighting us?
LA CONTAT. You know, it's not in my character to be a spectator; I must always play important parts. [She shows her musket, which a Pensioner takes from her at a sign from VINTIMILLE.]
VINTIMILLE. You were tired of playing comedy, and you decided to turn to drama. But do you realize, my dear, that your little escapade has put you in danger of spending a few months in Fort-l'Evêque?
LA CONTAT. I risked far more than that.
VINTIMILLE. But you were not in earnest, Contat? You one of these brawlers? [He scrutinizes her from head to foot.] No rouge, no beauty-spots. Your hands black—face streaming with perspiration—your hair wet, sticking to your cheeks. You're breathing hard. Muddy to the knees! Covered with filth and powder! What's happened to you? Why, I know you well, and I am sure you never liked that filthy rabble any more than I.
LA CONTAT. No, I didn't.
VINTIMILLE. A love-affair, then? Is he in that crowd?
LA CONTAT. I thought it was that at first. But there is something else.
VINTIMILLE. What?
LA CONTAT. I do not know. I couldn't tell you exactly why I am fighting: but I felt it not long ago, I was ready to cut your throat.