shake hands.] Well, what's the matter? You look at me with those great eyes of yours, and you don't say a word? Are you afraid?
La Contat. I—I beg your pardon. I hardly know where I am, and I am not sure whether to consider you as a friend or an enemy.
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'Évêque?
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.
