Angelique - Part 3. The Corridors of the Louvre Chapter 10 - Read online

‘ALL IS LOST! . . . It’s my fault! I’ve lost Joffrey/ Angelique kept repeating to herself.
With a wild look, she ran through the corridors of the Louvre. She was looking for Kouassi-Ba! She wanted to see the Grande Mademoiselle! ... In vain her anguished heart cried out for help. The figures she passed were deaf and blind, unsubstantial puppets from another world.
Darkness fell, bringing with it an October storm that lashed the window- panes, beat down the flickering candle-flames, whistled under the doors, and stirred the draperies. Colonnades, stone-masks, the solemn shadows of giant staircases, gilt wainscots, bridges and galleries, tiled floors, pier- glasses, mouldings—Angelique roamed through the Louvre as through a gloomy forest, a fatal labyrinth.
In the hope of finding Kouassi-Ba, she went downstairs and reached one of the courtyards. She had to retreat before the rainstorm which cascaded from the drain-pipes with the roar of a mountain torrent. Below stairs, a troupe of Italian comedians, who were to dance before the King that night, had taken refuge around a brazier. The red glow of the hearth lit the gaudy-coloured costumes of the harlequins with their black masks, the white disguises of Pantaloon and his clowns.
Back upstairs, Angelique at last saw a familiar face. It was Brienne. He told her that he had seen Monsieur de Prcfontaines in the apartments of the young Princess Henriette of England; perhaps he might be able to tell her where she could find Mademoiselle de Montpensier.
At Princess Henriette’s, gambling for high stakes was going on at all the tables in the gay, warm glow spread by the wax candles that lit the large drawing-room. Angelique noticed Andijos, Peguilin, d’Humieres and de Guiche. They were absorbed in the game or else pretended not to see her. Monsieur de Prefontaines, who was sipping a glass of liqueur by the fire¬side, told her that Mademoiselle de Montpensier had gone to play cards with the young Queen in the apartments of Anne of Austria. Her Majesty the Queen Maria-Theresa, tired, shy and still speaking bad French, did not care to mingle with the overweening young people at Court. Every evening, Mademoiselle went to play a set with her.
Mademoiselle was very kind; however, as the little Queen retired early, it was quite possible that Mademoiselle would soon be dropping in at her cousin Henriette’s. In any case, she would send for Monsieur de Pre- fontaines, since she never went to sleep without having first checked her accounts with him.
Having decided to wait for her, Angelique approached a table where the of ficers in charge of the royal food had set out a cold supper and pastries. She was always quite ashamed of her hearty appetite, which asserted itself even in the grimmest circumstances. Encouraged by Monsieur de Prefontaines, she sat down and ate a chicken-wing, two jellied eggs, and various tarts and jams. Then, after asking a page for a silver ewer to rinse her fingers, she joined a party of gamblers and took cards. She had a little money with her. Soon fortune smiled on her and she began to win. It comforted her. If she could line her purse, the day would not have been a total fiasco, after all. She concentrated on the game. Stacks of lews piled up before her. One of her neighbours, who was losing, said half-jokingly, half-seriously:
“No wonder: it’s the little witch.”
Deftly she raked in his stakes and only grasped his meaning a few seconds later. So Joffrey’s disgrace was beginning to be common know¬ledge. It was being whispered from ear to ear that he was accused of witchcraft. Angelique, however, resolutely stayed in her seat.
‘I shall not leave the table until I begin to lose. Oh! if only I could ruin them all and have gold enough to buy the judges. . . /
As she threw down three insolent aces, a hand slipped around her waist and pinched her.
“Why have you come back to the Louvre?” whispered the Marquis de Vardesinto her ear.
“Certainly not to see you again,” answered Angelique, without giving him a look.
And she freed herself brusquely.
He took up some cards and arranged them mechanically, while con¬tinuing in the same low tone:
“You are mad! Do you absolutely insist on being murdered?”
“What I want or don’t want is no concern of yours.”
He played, lost, put a new stake on the table.
“Listen, there is still time. Follow me. I shall give you an escort of Swiss guards to accompany you home.”
This time she looked at him with contempt.
“I have no confidence in your protection, Monsieur de Vardes* and you know why.”
He threw down his cards with ill-concealed temper.
“Oh! I am a fool to worry about you.”
He hesitated again, then made an ugly face and muttered:
“You’re making me look ridiculous. But since there is no other way of bringing you to your senses, I’ll tell you: think of your son. Leave the Louvre at once and, above all, keep away from the King’s brother!”
“I shall not move from this table as long as you are about,” retorted Angelique very calmly.
The nobleman’s hands clenched. But he suddenly rose from the gaming-table.
“Very well, I am leaving. Hurry and do likewise. Your life’s at stake.”
She saw him move away, bowing to the right and the left as he left the room.
Angelique stayed on, perturbed. She could not dispel a feeling of fright that was crawling into her like a cold serpent. Was Vardes setting a new trap for her? He was capable of anything. Yet there had been an un¬familiar note in the voice of the cynical Marquis. His mention of Flori- mond suddenly overwhelmed her. She had a fleeting vision of the adorable little fellow, in his red hood, toddling in his long, embroidered dress, his silver rattle in his hand. What would become of him if she should vanish?
The young woman left the game, slipping the gold pieces into her purse. She had won fifteen hundred Itvres. She picked up her coat from the back of an arm-chair, curtsied to Princess Henriette, who responded with an indifferent nod of her head.
Regretfully, Angelique left the room, a haven of light and warmth. A cold draught slammed the door behind her. The whistling wind pros¬trated the flickering candle-flames, which seemed to be fluttering in a mad panic. Shadows and flames fidgeted, as if tossed by fear. Then the calm returned, as the wind went to howl farther away, and in the long silent vista of corridors nothing stirred.
After asking directions from the Swiss guard posted outside Princess Henriettas apartment, Angelique walked quickly, tightly wrapping her cloak around her. She tried hard not to be afraid, but each comer seemed to conceal suspicious forms. As she approached the angle of the corridor, she slowed down. An insurmountable anguish paralysed her.
‘They’re there,’ she told herself.
She did not see anyone, but a shadow fell across the floor. This time there could be no doubt: a man was lying in wait. . . .
Angflique stopped. Something stirred in the angle of the wall, and a figure wrapped in a dark cloak, hat pulled deep down over the eyes, slowly emerged and barred her way. She bit her lips to stifle a cry, then promptly turned round and retraced her steps. She cast a glance over her shoulder. Now there were three of them, and they were following her. The young woman walked more quickly. But the three men were drawing closer. Then she began to run.
She had no need to turn round to know that they were running after her. She could hear behind her their hurrying footfalls. They were running on tiptoe. It was a soundless, unreal chase, a nightmare race through the empty vastness of the palace.
Suddenly Angelique perceived a half-open door on her right. She had just passed a turning of the corridor. Her pursuers were no longer in sight. She burst into the room, closed the door behind her, slid the bolt home. Leaning against the door-post, more dead than alive, she heard die hurry¬ing feet of the men, their panting breath. Then silence fell again.
Reeling with emotion, Angelique went to lean against the bed. The room was empty, but someone would doubdess be coming soon. The bed-sheets were turned down for the night. A fire glowed in the hearth and lit the room, as did a small oil-lamp placed on the bedside table.
With a hand over her bosom, Angelique tried to catch her breath.
‘I simply must get out of this hornet’s nest,’ she told herself.
She had been foolhardy to imagine, after escaping from one attempt on her life in the corridors of the Louvre, that she would be able to escape a second time. Naturally, in asking her to come to the Louvre, the Grande Mademoiselle had been unaware of the danger Angelique would be running. She was convinced that the King himself had no suspicion of what was being hatched inside his own palace. But Fouquet’s hidden presence ruled over the Louvre. Trembling lest Angelique’s secret might spell the ruin of his astounding fortune, the Controller had roused Philippe d’Orleans—the Petit Monsieur—and had thrown fear into the hearts of those who opposed him, while fawning on the King. The arrest of the Comte de Peyrac was one stage, the disappearance of Angelique completed the prudent stratagem. Only the dead don’t talk.
Her eyes roved all over the room, looking for some way of escape which would not attract attention.
Suddenly her eyes bulged with terror.
The curtain just in front of her had stirred. She heard a latch creak. A concealed door opened very slowly and in the aperture appeared the three men who had pursued her.
She had no difficulty in recognising the one who stepped forward: Monsieur, the King’s brother. *
He tossed away his conspirator’s cloak and puffed out the lace of his ruffle with a flick of his finger. He never took his eyes offher, while a cold smile drew back his small, red-lipped mouth.
“Perfect!” he exclaimed in his falsetto voice. “The doe has fallen into the trap. But what a chase! You can boast of being light-footed, Madame.”
Angelique armed herself with composure and, though her legs were giving way, she dropped a curtsy.
“So it was you, Monseigneur, who scared me so? I thought I was up against some rogues or cut-purses of the Pont-Neuf who’d managed to slip into the palace bent on mischief.”
“Oh! I’ve had occasion to play the brigand at night on the Pont-Neuf, too,” declared the little Monsieur smugly, “and nobody has to teach me how to cut a purse or pierce a citizen’s paunch. Isn’t that so, my dear?”
He turned towards one of his companions. The latter pushed his hat back, and revealed the features of the Chevalier de Lorraine. Without answering, the favourite stepped forward and drew his sword which gleamed with a reddish glint in the fire-light.
Angelique gazed attentively at the third, who kept a little in the back-ground.
“Clement Tonnel,” she said at last, “what are you doing here, my friend?” ‘
The man bowed very low.
“I am at Monseigneur’s command,” he replied.
He added, carried away by force of habit:
“May her ladyship excuse me.”
“I gladly excuse you,” said Angelique, who felt a nervous urge to laugh, “but why are you holding a pistol in your hand?”
The major-domo glanced with embarrassment at his weapon. Never-theless, he drew closer to the bed on which Angelique was leaning.
Philippe d’Orleans had pulled out the drawer of the little bedside table. He took out of it a glass half filled with a blackish liquid.
“Madame,” he said solemnly, “you are going to die.”
“Am I?” asked Angelique.
She looked at the three of them standing before her. She had the feeling of being split into two different beings. Deep within her, a fear-crazed woman was wringing her hands and crying: ‘Have pity, I don’t want to die!’ Another woman was reflecting lucidly: ‘They really look ridiculous. All this is just a bad joke.’
“Madame, you have flouted us,” went on the Petit Monsieur, his mouth screwed up with impatience. “You are going to die, but we are generous: we leave you the choice of your death: poison, sword, or pistol.”
A gust of wind shook the door violently and filled the room with acrid smoke. Angelique lifted her head hopefully.
“Oh! no one will come, no one will come!** said the King’s brother with a smirk. “This bed is your death-bed, Madame. It has been prepared for you.”
“But after all, what have I done to you?” cried Angelique, who began to feel the sweat of fear moistening her temples. “You talk of my death as if it were a natural, indispensable matter. Will you not allow me to share your view? The worst criminal is entitled to know what he is charged with and to defend himself.”
“Even the ablest defence won’t alter the verdict, Madame.”
“Well, if I must die, at least tell me why,” insisted the young woman vehemently.
The young Prince threw a questioning glance at his companion.
“Well, after all, since in a few moments you will have ceased to exist, I don’t see why we should show ourselves unnecessarily inhuman,” he said in his sugary voice. “Madame, you are not as ignorant as you pretend. You are perfectly aware at whose orders we are here.”
“The King’s?” cried Angelique, with a show of feigned respect.
Philippe d’Orleans shrugged his frail shoulders.
“The King is barely capable of dispatching to prison people against whom his jealousy has been roused. No, Madame. His Majesty has nothing to do with it.”
“From whom, then, can the King’s brother consent to receive orders?”
The Prince winced.
“I find you very bold, Madame, to talk in this way. You’re insulting me!
“And I find, for my part, that you are all rather touchy in your family!” retorted Angelique, whose anger was getting the better of her terror. “When you are being feted or made much of , you take offence because the one who receives you seems richer than you are! When you’re being of fered gifts, it’s insolence! When someone doesn’t bew to you deeply enough, it’s another! When one doesn’t live like a beggar, stretching out one’s hand till the State is ruined, the way your farmyard of lordlings does, it’s considered rank arrogance! When one pays taxes cash down to the last farthing, it’s a provocation! . . . A gang of petty pilferers, that’*: what you are, you, your brother, your mother, and all your treacherous cousins: Conde,Montpensier,Soissons, Guise, Lorraine, Vendome. . . .”
She stopped, out of breath
Rearing on his high heels like a young cock on his hackles,*Philippe d’Orleans threw an indignant glance at his favourite.
“Have you ever heard anyone talk of the royal family with such insolence?”
The Chevalier de Lorraine gave a cruel smile.
“Insults don’t kill, Monseigneur. Come, let’s put an end to it, Madame.”
“I want to know why I am to die,” said Angelique doggedly.
Determined to risk anything to gain a few minutes she quickly added:
“Is it on account of Monsieur Fouquet?”
The King’s brother could not help smiling with satisfaction.
“So your memory is returning? You know, therefore, why Monsieur Fouquet has his heart set on silencing you?”
“I know only one thing, and that is that years ago I foiled a poison plot which was intended to get rid of you, Monsieur, as well as of the King and the Cardinal. And I bitterly regret that, as a result, the efforts of the Monsieur Fouquet and the Prince de Conde were not successful.”
“So you confess?”
“I have nothing to confess. The treachery of this valet has fully in¬formed you of what I knew and confided to my husband. I once saved your life, Monseigneur, and this is how you thank me!”
A fleeting emotion appeared on the effeminate face of the young man.
“Bygones are bygones,” he said hesitantly. “Monsieur Fouquet has since lavished his kindness on me. It is only right that I should help him to remove a threat that is hanging over him. Truly, Madame, I am heart¬broken, but it is too late. Why did you not accept the reasonable proposal Monsieur Fouquet made to you through the intermediary of Madame de Beauvais?”
“Because I understand that I would have to abandon my husband to his sad fate.”
“Naturally. You cannot silence a Comte de Peyrac except by walling him up in a prison. But a woman, surrounded by luxury and compliments, soon forgets things that have to be forgotten. At any rate, it is too late now. Come, Madame. ...”
“And if I told you where that casket is,” suggested Angelique, gripping him by the shoulders, “you, Monseigneur, you alone would then hold in your hands the formidable power of frightening, of dominating Monsieur Fouquet himself, to say nothing of the proof of the treason of so many great lords who look down upon you, who don’t take you seriously. . . .”
A light gleamed in the eyes of the young Prince, and he passed his tongue over his Ups. But the ChevaUer de Lorraine gripped him and pulled him aside as if he wanted to wrench him from Angelique’s evil power.
“Take care, Monseigneur. Don't be tempted by this woman. By lying promises she is trying to escape us, to delay her execution. It is better that she should take her secret with her to the grave. If you owned it, you would probably be very powerful, but your days would be numbered."
Leaning on his faVourite's arm, Philippe d’Orleans was pondering.
“You are right, as always, dear love," he sighed. “Well, let's do our duty. Madame, which do you choose: poison, sword, or pistol?”
“Make up your mind fast!" cut in the Chevalier de Lorraine threaten¬ingly. “Or else we'll choose for you."
After a moment of flickering hope, Angeliquc had again fallen into a cruelly hopeless situation.
The three men stood before her. She could not make a move without being stopped by the Chevalier's sword or Clement's pistol. No bell-rope was within her reach. No sound came from outside. Only the logs sizzling in the hearth and the rain pelting against the windows broke the stifling silence. In a few seconds, her murderers would hurl themselves upon her. Angelique's eyes rested on their weapons. With the pistol or the sword, she was sure to die. But perhaps she might escape the poison? For over a year now she had absorbed each day a minute dose of the toxic products which Joffrey had prepared for her.
She held out her hand and tried to prevent it from trembling.
“The poison!” she murmured.
Lifting the glass to her lips, she noticed that a sediment of metallic brilliance had formed at the bottom. She took care not to stir up the liquid while she drank it. It had an acrid, pungent taste.
“And now leave me alone," she said, placing the glass on the table.
She felt no pain. ‘Probably,' she told herself, ‘the food I took at Princess Henriettc's is still protecting the walls of my stomach , . .' She had not lost all hope of escaping from her tormentors and avoiding a horrible death.
She sank to her knees at the Prince's feet.
“Monseigneur, have pity on my soul. Send me a priest. I shall die. I am already too weak to drag myself along. You are now certain that I shall not escape you. Don't let me die unconfessed. God could never for¬give you the infamy of having deprived me of the succour of religion."
She began to cry in a heart-rending voice:
“A priest! A priest! God won’t forgive you.”
She saw Clement Tonnel turn away and cross himself, blenching.
“She is right,” said the Prince in a troubled tone of voice. “We’d gain nothing by depriving her of the consolations of religion. Calm yourself, Madame. I had foreseen your request. I shall send you a chaplain who is waiting in the next room."
“Gentlemen, withdraw,” implored Ang£lique, exaggerating the weak¬ness of her voice and carrying her hand to her stomach as if she were writhing in a spasm of pain. “All I wish to think of now is putting my conscience at rest. I feel too strongly that, if but one of you were to remain, here under my eyes, I’d be incapable of forgiving my enemies. Ah! how I suffer! Pity, my God!”
She flung herself backward with a horrible groan.
Philippe d’Orleans pulled the Chevalier de Lorraine away.
“Let’s go quickly. She’s only got a few moments more.”
The major-domo had already left the room.
No sooner had they gone than Angelique rose to her feet and leaped to the window. She managed to open it, caught a gust of rain in the face, and peered into the black depth. She could not see anything at all and was unable to gauge at what distance she was from the ground, but without hesitation she climbed over the window-sill.
The fall seemed endless to her. She landed with a brutal jolt in a sort of cesspool, into which she sank, but which probably saved her from breaking a limb. A shooting pain in her ankle made her think for a moment that she had broken it; but it was only a sprain.
Keeping close to the wall, Angelique took a few steps, then inserted the end of one of her curls into her throat and managed to vomit several times. She was unable to make out where she was. Groping along the walls, she was horrified to realise that she had jumped into a small interior courtyard filled with refuse and filth, where she still ran the risk of being caught.
Fortunately, her fingers came across a door that was unlocked. Inside, it was dark and damp. A smell of wine drifted towards her. She must be in the outbuildings of the Louvre near the wine-cellars. She decided to go back upstairs. She would ask for help from the first guard she happened to meet. . . . But the King would have her arrested and thrown into prison. Oh! how to get out of this mouse-trap?
Meanwhile she had reached the inhabited parts of the palace and heaved a sigh of relief. A few steps away she recognised the Swiss guard on duty outside Princess Henriette’s door, the one of whom she had asked the way earlier in the evening. At the same moment, her nerves got the better of her and she uttered a shriek of terror, for at the other end of the corridor she saw the Chevalier de Lorraine and Philippe d’Orleans coming at a run, swords in hand. They must have known the only way out of the court¬yard into which their victim had thrown herself, and they were trying to cut of f her retreat.
Rushing past the guard on duty, Angelique dived into the drawing¬room and threw herself at the feet of Princess Henriette.
“Have pity, Madame, have pity, they want to murder me!”
A cannon-ball could hot have shattered that brilliant gathering more effectively. All the players rose as one, staring dumbfounded at the young woman who, dishevelled, drenched, in a mud-bespattered, tom dress, had collapsed in their midst.
А^ёИ4ие, all her strength spent, cast wild, hunted eyes around her. She recognised the faces of Andijos and of Pcguilin de Lauzun.
“Gentlemen, save me!” she begged. “They have just tried to poison me. They arc after me to kill me.”
“But who are your would-be assassins, my poor dear?” inquired the gentle voice of Henriette of England.
“There!”
Unable to say more, Angelique pointed towards the door.
Everybody turned round.
The Petit Monsieur, the King’s brother, and his favourite, the Chevalier de Lorraine, were standing on the threshold. They had sheathed their swords and were affecting an air of pained compunction.
“My poor Henriette,” said Philippe d’Orleans, approaching his cousin with mincing steps, “I am so sorry about this incident. This unfortunate woman is mad.”
“I am not mad. I tell you that they want to kill me.”
“But surely, my dear, you must be raving,” the Princess tried to appease her. “The person whom you are pointing out as your murderer is none other than Monseigneur d’Orleans. Look at him well.”
“I looked at him only too well!” cried Angelique. “I shan’t forget his face as long as I hve. I tell you that he wanted to poison me. Monsieur de Prefontaines, you who are an honest man, bring me some medicine, some milk, anything, so that I can counteract the effects of this horrible poison. I beg of you . . . Monsieur de Prefontaines!”
Stuttering, bemused, the poor man rushed towards a table and of fered the young woman a nostrum of some kind, which she hastened to eat.
The uproar was at its height.
Monsieur was still trying to make himself heard, his little mouth pursed with annoyance.
“I assure you, my friends, that this woman has lost her wits. None of you is unaware that her husband is at present in the Bastille for a dreadful crime: the crime of witchcraft. This unfortunate woman, infatuated by this scandalous gentleman, is trying to assert his innocence, and that is rather hard to prove. Vainly did His Majesty try to convince her today in the course of an interview full of kindness . .
“Oh! the King’s kindness! The King’s kindness! . . said Angelique, exasperated. '
In another moment, her mind would begin to wander . . . that would be the end of her! She buried her face in her hands, tried to recover her calm. She heard the Petit Monsieur say in his candid adolescent voice:
“She was suddenly seized by a truly diabolical fit. She is possessed by the demon. The King immediately sent for the prior of the Augustine convent to endeavour to calm her by ritual prayers. But she managed to run away. To avoid the scandal of having to apprehend her with his own guards, His Majesty instructed me to try and find her and detain her until the friar arrives. I am so sorry, Henriette, that she should have upset your soiree. I think the wisest course would be for all of you to retire into the next room with your cards, while I discharge here the task entrusted to me by my brother.”
Angelique saw, as in a fog, the serried ranks of lords and ladies dissolve around her. Impressed, and anxious not to displease the King’s brother, they were all withdrawing.
Angelique raised her hands, felt the material of a dress which her fingers were powerless to clasp.
“Madame,” she said in a toneless voice, “you are not going to let me die?”
The Princess wavered. She cast an anxious glance at her cousin.
“Why, Henriette,” he protested sadly, “you don’t trust me? When we have already exchanged pledges of mutual confidence and when we shall soon be united by sacred bonds?”
The blonde Henriette lowered her head.
“Trust in Monseigneur, my friend,” she said to Angelique. “I am convinced he wants only to help you.”
And quickly she walked away.
In a sort of delirium that made her speechless with fear, Angelique, still kneeling on the carpet, turned towards the door through which the courtiers had so swiftly disappeared. She saw Bernard d’Andijos and Peguilin de Lauzun, who, as pale as death, could not make up their minds to leave the room.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Monseigneur d’Orlcans in his shrill voice, “my orders concern you as well. Shall I report to the King that you accord more credence to the ravings of a madwoman than to the words of his own brother?”
The two men dropped their heads and slowly left the room. This supreme desertion roused Angelique’s fighting spirit.
“Cowards! Cowards! Oh, cowards!” she cried, bounding to her feet and rushing behind an arm-chair for protection.
She only just dodged a stroke from the Chevalier de Lorraine’s sword. Another stroke touched her shoulder and drew blood.
“Andijos, Peguilin, Gascons! Save me from the northerners!”
The door of the next room suddenly opened. Lauzun and the Marquis d’Andijos rushed forward with bared swords. They had been lying in wait behind the door left ajar, and now they could no longer doubt the horrible designs of the King’s brother and his favourite.
D’Andijos, with a single stroke, knocked the sword out of Philippe d’Orleans’s hand and slashed his wrist. Lauzun was crossing blades with the Chevalier de Lorraine.
Andijos seized Angelique’s hand.
“Quickly!”
He pulled her along the corridor, running into Clement Tonnel, who did not have time to make use of his pistol. Andi jos planted his blade in the other’s throat. The man collapsed in a gush of blood.
Then the Marquis and the young woman raced along as fast as they could. Behind them, the Petit Monsieur’s falsetto voice was alerting the Swiss guards:
“Guards! Guards! Catch them!”
The noise of running footsteps mingling with the clatter of halberds rose in their wake.
“The great gallery . . .” panted Andijos, “to the Tuileries . . . the stables, the horses! Then, the country . . . Saved . . .”
Despite his paunch, the Gascon ran with a stamina Angelique would never have suspected. But she could keep up with him no longer. Her ankle hurt her dreadfully, her shoulder was smarting.
“I am going to fall!” she gasped, “I’m going to fall!”
At that moment they passed before the great staircase leading into the courtyards.
“Down there,” said Andijos, “and hide as best you can. I shall try and lead them as far away as possible.”
In headlong flight, Angelique raced down the stone steps. The glow from a brazier made her recoil. She collapsed.
Harlequin, Columbine, Pierrot pulled her into their shelter, concealed her as well as they could. For a long while the big green and red lozenges of their costumes twinkled before the eyes of the young woman before she sank into a deep swoon.