Decidedly, I was wrong, my lord; you are certainly handsomer than your wife.""But do you think me as handsome as Buckingham?""Certainly, and he thinks so, too; for look, my lord, he is redoubling his attentions to Madame to prevent your effacing the impression he has made."Monsieur made a movement of impatience, but as he noticed a smile of triumph pass across the chevalier's lips, he drew up his horse to a foot-pace."Why," said he, "should Ioccupy myself any longer about my cousin? Do I not already know her? Were we not brought up together? Did I not see her at the Louvre when she was quite a child?""A great change has taken place in her since then, prince.
At the period you allude to, she was somewhat less brilliant, and scarcely so proud, either.One evening, particularly, you may remember, my lord, the king refused to dance with her, because he thought her plain and badly dressed!"These words made the Duke of Orleans frown.It was by no means flattering for him to marry a princess of whom, when young, the king had not thought much.He would probably have retorted, but at this moment De Guiche quitted the carriage to join the prince.He had remarked the prince and the chevalier together, and full of anxious attention he seemed to try and guess the nature of the remarks which they had just exchanged.The chevalier, whether he had some treacherous object in view, or from imprudence, did not take the trouble to dissimulate."Count," he said, "you're a man of excellent taste.""Thank you for the compliment," replied De Guiche; "but why do you say that?""Well, I appeal to his highness."
"No doubt of it," said Monsieur, "and Guiche knows perfectly well that I regard him as a most finished cavalier.""Well, since that is decided, I resume.You have been in the princess's society, count, for the last eight days, have you not?""Yes," replied De Guiche, coloring in spite of himself.
"Well, then, tell us frankly, what do you think of her personal appearance?""Of her personal appearance?" returned De Guiche, stupefied.
"`Yes; of her appearance, of her mind, of herself, in fact."Astounded by this question, De Guiche hesitated answering.
"Come, come, De Guiche," resumed the chevalier, laughingly, "tell us your opinion frankly; the prince commands it.""Yes, yes," said the prince, "be frank."
De Guiche stammered out a few unintelligible words.
"I am perfectly well aware," returned Monsieur, "that the subject is a delicate one, but you know you can tell me everything.What do you think of her?"In order to avoid betraying his real thoughts, De Guiche had recourse to the only defense which a man taken by surprise really has, and accordingly told an untruth."I do not find Madame," he said, "either good or bad looking, yet rather good than bad looking.""What! count," exclaimed the chevalier, "you who went into such ecstasies and uttered so many exclamations at the sight of her portrait."De Guiche colored violently.Very fortunately his horse, which was slightly restive, enabled him by a sudden plunge to conceal his agitation."What portrait!" he murmured, joining them again.The chevalier had not taken his eyes off him.
"Yes, the portrait.Was not the miniature a good likeness?""I do not remember.I had forgotten the portrait; it quite escaped my recollection.""And yet it made a very marked impression upon you," said the chevalier.
"That is not unlikely."
"Is she witty, at all events?" inquired the duke.
"I believe so, my lord."
"Is M.de Buckingham witty, too?" said the chevalier.
"I do not know."
"My own opinion is, that he must be," replied the chevalier, "for he makes Madame laugh, and she seems to take no little pleasure in his society, which never happens to a clever woman when in the company of a ******ton.""Of course, then, he must be clever," said De Guiche, simply.
At this moment Raoul opportunely arrived, seeing how De Guiche was pressed by his dangerous questioner, to whom he addressed a remark, and in that way changed the conversation.The entree was brilliant and joyous.
The king, in honor of his brother, had directed that the festivities should be on a scale of the greatest possible magnificence.Madame and her mother alighted at the Louvre, where, during their exile, they had so gloomily submitted to obscurity, misery, and privations of every description.That palace, which had been so inhospitable a residence for the unhappy daughter of Henry IV., the naked walls, the uneven floorings, the ceilings matted with cobwebs, the vast dilapidated chimney-places, the cold hearths on which the charity extended to them by parliament hardly permitted a fire to glow, was completely altered in appearance.The richest hangings and the thickest carpets, glistening flagstones and pictures, with their richly gilded frames; in every direction could be seen candelabra, mirrors, and furniture and fittings of the most sumptuous character; in every direction, also, were guards of the proudest military bearing, with floating plumes, crowds of attendants and courtiers in the ante-chambers and upon the staircases.In the courtyards, where the grass had formerly been allowed to luxuriate, as if the ungrateful Mazarin had thought it a good idea to let the Parisians perceive that solitude and disorder were, with misery and despair, the fit accompaniments of fallen monarchy, the immense courtyards, formerly silent and desolate, were now thronged with courtiers whose horses were pacing and prancing to and fro.
The carriages were filled with young and beautiful women, who awaited the opportunity of saluting, as she passed, the daughter of that daughter of France who, during her widowhood and exile, had sometimes gone without wood for her fire, and bread for her table, whom the meanest attendants at the chateau had treated with indifference and contempt.