The hand clapping was deafening, and Jupiter had already withdrawn under his tapestry, while the hall still trembled with acclamations.
In the meanwhile, the personage who had so magically turned the tempest into dead calm, as our old and dear Corneille puts it, had modestly retreated to the half-shadow of his pillar, and would, no doubt, have remained invisible there, motionless, and mute as before, had he not been plucked by the sleeve by two young women, who, standing in the front row of the spectators, had noticed his colloquy with Michel Giborne-Jupiter.
"Master," said one of them, making him a sign to approach. "Hold your tongue, my dear Liénarde," said her neighbor, pretty, fresh, and very brave, in consequence of being dressed up in her best attire. "He is not a clerk, he is a layman; you must not say master to him, but messire."
"Messire," said Liénarde.
The stranger approached the railing.
"What would you have of me, damsels?" he asked, with alacrity.
"Oh! nothing," replied Liénarde, in great confusion; "it is my neighbor, Gisquette la Gencienne, who wishes to speak with you."
"Not so," replied Gisquette, blushing; "it was Liénarde who called you master; I only told her to say messire."
The two young girls dropped their eyes. The man, who asked nothing better than to enter into conversation, looked at them with a smile.
"So you have nothing to say to me, damsels?"
"Oh! nothing at all," replied Gisquette.
"Nothing," said Liénarde.
The tall, light-haired young man retreated a step; but the two curious maidens had no mind to let slip their prize.
"Messire," said Gisquette, with the impetuosity of an open sluice, or of a woman who has made up her mind, "do you know that soldier who is to play the part of Madame the Virgin in the mystery?"
"You mean the part of Jupiter?" replied the stranger.
"Hé! yes," said Liénarde, "isn't she stupid? So you know Jupiter?"
"Michel Giborne?" replied the unknown; "yes, madam."
"He has a fine beard!" said Liénarde.
"Will what they are about to say here be fine?" inquired Gisquette, timidly.
"Very fine, mademoiselle," replied the unknown, without the slightest hesitation.
"What is it to be?" said Liénarde.
"'The Good Judgment of Madame the Virgin,'--a morality, if you please, damsel."
"Ah! that makes a difference," responded Liénarde.
A brief silence ensued--broken by the stranger.
"It is a perfectly new morality, and one which has never yet been played."
"Then it is not the same one," said Gisquette, "that was given two years ago, on the day of the entrance of monsieur the legate, and where three handsome maids played the parts--"