Another burst of laughter answered him.
Fontenelle turned in his chair and looked at the last speaker, and
to his amazement saw the actor, Miraudin. He was leaning carelessly
against the wine counter, a half-emptied "fiaschetto" in front of
him, and a full glass of wine in his hand.
"The Monsignori would be all desolate bachelors!" he went on,
lazily, "And the greatest rascal in the Vatican, Domenico Gherardi,
would no longer be the fortunate possessor of the wealth, the
influence, and the dear embraces of the fascinating Hermenstein!"
Scarcely had he spoken when the glass he held was dashed out of his
hand, and Fontenelle, white with fury, struck him smartly and full
across the face. A scene of the wildest confusion and uproar ensued.
All the men in the wine-shop crowded around them, and for a moment
Miraudin, blinded by the blow, and the wine that had splashed up
against his eyes, did not see who had struck him, but as he
recovered from the sudden shock and stared at his opponent, he broke
into a wild laugh.
"Diantre! Ban soir, Monsieur le Marquis! Upon my life, there is
something very strange in this! Fate or the devil, or both! Well!
What now!"
"You are a liar and a blackguard!" said Fontenelle fiercely, "And
unless you apologise for your insult to the lady whose name you have
presumed to utter with your mountebank tongue--"
"Apologise! I! Moi!--genie de France! Never!" retorted Miraudin with
an air of swaggering audacity, "All women are alike! I speak from
experience!"
White to the lips, the Marquis Fontenelle looked around.
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