XI

The first half of the entertainment was concluded by a very fine bout between Jacques Rival and the celebrated Belgian professor, Lebegue. Rival greatly pleased the ladies. He was really a handsome fellow, well made, supple, agile, and more graceful than any of those who had preceded him. He brought, even into his way of standing on guard and lunging, a certain fashionable elegance which pleased people, and contrasted with the energetic, but more commonplace style of his adversary. “One can perceive the well-bred man at once,” was the remark. He scored the last hit, and was applauded.

But for some minutes past a singular noise on the floor above had disturbed the spectators. It was a loud trampling, accompanied by noisy laughter. The two hundred guests who had not been able to get down into the cellar were no doubt amusing themselves in their own way. On the narrow, winding staircase fifty men were packed. The heat down below was getting terrible. Cries of “More air,” “Something to drink,” were heard. The same joker kept on yelping in a shrill tone that rose above the murmur of conversation, “Orgeat, lemonade, beer.” Rival made his appearance, very flushed, and still in his fencing costume. “I will have some refreshments brought,” said he, and made his way to the staircase. But all communication with the ground floor was cut off. It would have been as easy to have pierced the ceiling as to have traversed the human wall piled up on the stairs.

Rival called out: “Send down some ices for the ladies.” Fifty voices called out: “Some ices!” A tray at length made its appearance. But it only bore empty glasses, the refreshments having been snatched on the way.

A loud voice shouted: “We are suffocating down here. Get it over and let us be off.” Another cried out: “The collection.” And the whole of the public, gasping, but good-humored all the same, repeated: “The collection, the collection.”