LITMIR.BIZ

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harness. Seated in this open carriage, as though upon a throne, and beneath a parasol of embroidered silk, fringed with feathers, sat the young and lovely princess, on whose beaming face were reflected the softened rose-tints which suited her delicate skin to perfection. Monsieur, on reaching the carriage, was struck by her beauty; he showed his admiration in so marked a manner that the Chevalier de Lorraine shrugged his shoulders as he listened to his compliments, while Buckingham and De Guiche were almost heart-broken. After the usual courtesies had been rendered, and the ceremony completed, the procession slowly resumed the road to Paris. The presentations had been carelessly made, and Buckingham, with the rest of the English gentlemen, had been introduced to Monsieur, from whom they had received but very indifferent attention. But, during their progress, as he observed that the duke devoted himself with his accustomed eagerness to the carriage-door, he asked the Chevalier de Lorraine, his inseparable companion, “Who is that cavalier?”

      “He was presented to your highness a short while ago; it is the handsome Duke of Buckingham.”

      “Ah, yes, I remember.”

      “Madame’s knight,” added the favorite, with an inflection of the voice which envious minds can alone give to the simplest phrases.

      “What do you say?” replied the prince.

      “I said ‘Madame’s knight’.”

      “Has she a recognized knight, then?”

      “One would think you can judge of that for yourself; look, only, how they are laughing and flirting. All three of them.”

      “What do you mean by all three?”

      “Do you not see that De Guiche is one of the party?”

      “Yes, I see. But what does that prove?”

      “That Madame has two admirers instead of one.”

      “You poison the simplest thing!”

      “I poison nothing. Ah! your royal highness’s mind is perverted. The honors of the kingdom of France are being paid to your wife and you are not satisfied.”

      The Duke of Orleans dreaded the satirical humor of the Chevalier de Lorraine whenever it reached a certain degree of bitterness, and he changed the conversation abruptly. “The princess is pretty,” said he, very negligently, as if he were speaking of a stranger.

      “Yes,” replied the chevalier, in the same tone.

      “You say ‘yes’ like a ‘no’. She has very beautiful black eyes.”

      “Yes, but small.”

      “That is so, but they are brilliant. She is tall, and of a good figure.”

      “I fancy she stoops a little, my lord.”

      “I do not deny it. She has a noble appearance.”

      “Yes, but her face is thin.”

      “I thought her teeth beautiful.”

      “They can easily be seen, for her mouth is large enough. 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 I occupy 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 simpleton.”

      “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,

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