le_. Mother of
the heavens! but there was a man for you! There was a king that was
worthy of such a queen. Name of disaster! that she could not hold him,
that the curse of virtue sapped such a splendid tree, and that she could
take up with another after him!"

"Why not?" cried Toinette, as she tossed down the last half of her
absinthe and twitched her flower-crowned head. "A kingdom must have a
king, _ma mere_; and Dieu: but he is handsome, this Monsieur Gaston
Merode! And if he carries out his part of the work to-night he will be
worthy of the homage of all."

"'If' he carries it out--'if'!" exclaimed Marise, with a lurch of the
shoulders and a flirt of her pudgy hand. "Soul of me! that's where the
difference lies. Had it been the cracksman, there would have been no
'if'--it were done as surely as he attempted it. Name of misfortune! I
had gone into a nunnery had I lost such a man. But she--"

The voice of Margot shrilled out and cut into her words. "Absinthe,
Marise, absinthe for them all--and set the score down to me!" she cried.
"Drink up, my bonny boys; drink up, my loyal maids. Drink--drink till
your skins will hold no more. No one pays to-night but me!"

They broke into a cheer, and bearing down in a body upon Marise, threw
her into a fever of haste to serve them.

"To Margot!" they shouted, catching up the glasses and lifting them
high. "_Vive la Reine des Apaches! Vive la compagnie!_ To Margot! To
Margot!"

She swept them a merry bow, threw them a laughing salute, and drank the
toast with them.

"Messieurs, my love--mesdames et mademoiselles, my admiration," she
cried, with a ripple of joy-mad laughter. "To the success of the
Apaches, to the glory of four hundred thousand francs, and to the quick
arrival of Serpice and Gaston!" Then, her upward glance catching sight
of the musicians sipping their absinthe in the little gallery above, she
flung her empty glass against the wall behind them, and shook with
laughter as they started in alarm and spilled the green poison when they
dodged aside. "Another dance, you dawdlers!" she cried. "Does Marise pay
you to sit there like mourners? Strike up, you mummies, or you pay
yourselves for what you drink to-night. Soul of desires!"--as the
musicians grabbed up their instruments, and a leaping, lilting,
quick-beating air went rollicking out over the hubbub--"a quadrille, you
angels of inspiration! Partners, gentlemen! Partners, ladies! A
quadrille! A quadrille!"