(Via:Here.)
"Are you hurt, ma'am?" The words—the pacific impersonal manner, splintered her fleeting fantasy—she remembered that Louis was fair, his eyes green. She could do nothing to tranquilise the culpable stab of fiasco.
A sequel to scene 7
Eyes fixed on her port of call—didn't see the man teeters out of the salon. He ricocheted into her—and Agathe was voetsek balanced by the impact. She perched on her back in a most unladylike spot. Svelte legs in light-toned stockings—half bared and enmeshed in the hem of her traveling dress. The wind was kayoed out of her—and she laid there—goggling up at the drink-haggard face of a waterlogged vagabond.
His cheeks were sheltered with cragged whiskers—his bull-denim pants encrusted with dirt—and weeks of unguent stains ornamented the forepart of his leather vest. His gun belt, hung below a bulging belly—was crooked sideways.
"Wahl, wahl, wha' have we here?" The drunk quivered his head—as if to pellucid his vision. You the new cyprian for Julia's crib? Mighty pretty, mighty pretty!" He reached out for her, dodging sparingly. A string of spittle—hung from the corner of his mouth.
Agathe had no puff to speak or even move—but laid there in helpless horror with a prodigal expanse of white thigh exhibited. Before she could even move—a penumbra fell over her. She saw a nebulous action—had a meteoric impression of robustness and power—and then the vagabond was swerving through the air toward the street—like the Human Cannonball she had once seen in Sulivan's Traveling Circus.
Her savior genuflected beside her. His face wasn't conventionally handsome—but had a stark beauty all its own—all indentations and gradients and scowling blue eyes. As he kinked over her—Agathe gaped up at him marvellingly. He is the stuff that girlish dreams are made of! Her heart capered in double time. Could this be Louis?
"Are you hurt, ma'am?" The words—the pacific impersonal manner, splintered her fleeting fantasy—she remembered that Louis was fair, his eyes green. She could do nothing to tranquilise the culpable stab of fiasco.
The man slithered an arm beneath her shoulders—supporting her weight on it. " I am quite unbroken—except for the blow to my pride! Thank you, sir—for your most timely assistance." His arm stiffened momentarily—and she had a forceful urge to lean her head against his sweeping chest—but it was gone in a prompt, and she held out her hand, completely flustered. "If you will just help me to my feet…."