"They're killing each other! Separate them, the vixens!" exclaimed
several voices.

The other women had drawn nearer. They formed themselves into two camps.
Some were cheering the combatants on as the others were trembling and
turning their heads away saying that it was making them sick. A large
fight nearly broke out between the two camps as the women called each
other names and brandished their fists threateningly. Three loud slaps
rang out.

Madame Boche, meanwhile, was trying to discover the wash-house boy.

"Charles! Charles! Wherever has he got to?"

And she found him in the front rank, looking on with his arms folded.
He was a big fellow, with an enormous neck. He was laughing and enjoying
the sight of the skin which the two women displayed. The little blonde
was as fat as a quail. It would be fun if her chemise burst open.

"Why," murmured he, blinking his eye, "she's got a strawberry birthmark
under her arm."

"What! You're there!" cried Madame Boche, as she caught sight of him.
"Just come and help us separate them. You can easily separate them, you
can!"

"Oh, no! thank you, not if I know it," said he coolly. "To get my eye
scratched like I did the other day, I suppose! I'm not here for that
sort of thing; I have enough to do without that. Don't be afraid, a
little bleeding does 'em good; it'll soften 'em."