We
must do without them."
"By no means!" exclaimed Miraudin, "We have them! Here they are!
You, Jeanne, will you be my second--how often you have seconded me
in many a devil's game--and you--cochon d'un cocher!--you will for
once in your life support the honour of a Marquis!"
And with these words he seized the unhappy Roman cab-driver by the
collar of his coat, and flung him towards Fontenelle, who took not
the slightest notice of him as he lay huddled up and wailing on the
grass, but merely stood his ground, silently waiting. Mademoiselle
Jeanne Richaud however was not so easily disposed of. Throwing
herself on the cold ground, thick with the dust of dead Caesars, she
clung to Miraudin, pouring out a torrent of vociferous French,
largely intermixed with a special slang of the Paris streets, and
broken by the hysterical yells when she saw her "protector" throw
off his coat, and, standing in his shirt-sleeves, take close
observation of the pistol he held.
"Is this your care of me?" she cried, "Mon Dieu! What a thing is a
man! Here am I alone in a strange country--and you endanger your
life for some quarrel of which I know nothing,--yet you pretend to
love me! Nom de Jesus! What is your love!"
"You do well to ask," said Miraudin, laughing carelessly, "What is
my love! A passing fancy, chere petite! We actors simulate love too
well to ever feel it! Out of the way, jou-jou! Your life will be
amusing so long as you keep a little beaute de diable.
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