VINTIMILLE [_bowing_]. Why, it's you, Contat? You come to the rendezvous, I see! A silver helmet over your blonde hair, musket in hand; why, you look like the goddess of Liberty herself. So you were curious to come and see for yourself? You will be safe here, and may look around without danger. [_He extends his hand to her, but she hesitates to take it._] You won't shake hands? We were good friends not very long ago. Are we not still? [_She decides to 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'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. VINTIMILLE [_laughing_]. You always liked to exaggerate. LA CONTAT. I am not joking now. VINTIMILLE. But, Contat, you are a woman of sense; you don't do things without a reason? LA CONTAT. I have a reason, but I can't explain it now. A few moments ago it was so powerful, so clear to me. The feelings of those people thrill me, like the roll of thunder. Now that I am separated from them, I don't know, I don't know what-- VINTIMILLE. You were mad. Confess it. LA CONTAT. No, no: I am sure they are right. VINTIMILLE. Right to rebel against the King, kill people, and die for a nothing? LA CONTAT. They are not dying for nothing. VINTIMILLE. No, of course not: for Monsieur d'Orléans' écus! LA CONTAT. My dear, you're the same as ever: you always minimize one's motives. VINTIMILLE. Money is not a small motive to vagabonds who have none. Can you give me a better motive? LA CONTAT. Liberty. VINTIMILLE. What is that?