LITMIR.BIZ

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shooting in a golden dust.

      The king came out of his private rooms at ten precisely, dressed with more care than usual, his lace being richer and the jewels in his garter and shoe buckles being worth a fortune. Informed by Satines that the court ladies were plotting against his favorite, he was careworn and trembled with fury when he saw none but men in the ante-chamber. But he took heart when, in the queen's drawing-room, set aside for the reception, he saw in a cloud of powder and diamond luster, his three daughters, and all the ladies who had vowed the night before to stay away. The Duke of Richelieu ran from one to another, playfully reproaching them for giving in and complimenting them on thinking better of it.

      "But what has made you come, duke?" they naturally challenged him.

      "Oh, I am not here really—I am but the proxy for my daughter, Countess Egmont. If you will look around you will not see her; she alone, with Lady Grammont and Lady Guemenee has kept the pledge to keep aloof. I am sure what will happen to me for practically staying away. I shall be sent into exile for the fifth time, or to the Bastille for the fourth. That will end my plotting, and I vow to conspire never again."

      The king remarked the absentees, and he went up to the Duke of Choiseul who affected the utmost calm and demanded:

      "I do not see the Duchess of Grammont."

      "Sire, my sister is not well, and she begs me to offer her most humble respects," said Choiseul, only succeeding in flimsy indifference.

      "That is bad for her!" ominously said the sovereign, turning his back on the duke and thus facing Prince Guemenee.

      "Have you brought your wife?" he questioned.

      "Impossible, your majesty: when I went to bring her, she was sick abed."

      "Nothing could be worse," said the king. "Good-evening, marshal," he said to Richelieu, who bowed with the suppleness of a young courtier. "You do not seem to have a touch of the complaint?"

      "Sire, I am always in good health when I have the pleasure of beholding your majesty."

      "But I do not see your daughter the Countess of Egmont. What is the reason of her absence?"

      "Alas! sire," responded the old duke, assuming the most sorrowful mien, "my poor child is the more indisposed from the mishap depriving her of the happiness of this occasion, but——"

      "Lady Egmont unwell, whose health was the most robust in the realm! this is sad for her!" and the king turned his back on the old courtier as he had on the others whom he snubbed.

      Gloomy, anxious and irritated, the king went over to the window, and seizing the carved handle of the sash with one hand, he cooled his fevered brow against the pane. The courtiers could be heard chattering, like leaves rustling before the tempest, while all eyes stared at the clock; it struck the half-hour, when a great uproar of vehicles rumbling on the yard cobblestones resounded under the carriage-way vault. Suddenly the royal brow brightened and a flash shot from his eyes.

      "The Right Honorable Lady the Countess of Dubarry!" roared the usher to the grand master of ceremonies. "The Right Honorable the Countess of Bearn!"

      Different sensations were making all hearts leap. Invincibly drawn by curiosity, a flood of courtiers moved toward the monarch.

      The wife of the Marshal of Mirepoix was carried close up to the king, and though she had been in the front of the anti-Dubarryists, she clasped her hands ready for adoration, and exclaimed:

      "Oh, how lovely she is!"

      The king turned and smiled on the speaker.

      "But she is not a mere mortal," said Richelieu; "she is a fairy," which won him the end of the smile.

      In truth, never had the countess been fairer, more winsome in expression, more modest in bearing, more noble in figure, more elegant in step or more cunning in showing emotion; her like had never excited admiration in the queen's drawing-room.

      Charmingly beautiful, richly but not flauntingly dressed and notable for a tastefully novel headdress, she advanced held by the hand of Countess Bearn. Spite of atrocious pangs, the latter did not hobble or even wince, though the rouge fell in flakes from her face as each step wrung her to the core.

      All eyes turned on the singular pair.

      The old dame, with an old-fashioned low-necked robe, and her hair built up a foot high above her bright but deep-set eyes like an osprey's, her splendid attire and her skeleton-tread, seemed the image of the past giving her hand to the present. This model of cold, dry dignity guiding decent and voluptuous beauty, struck most with admiration and astonishment.

      The vivid contrast made the king fancy that Countess Bearn was bringing him his favorite more youthful and brilliant than ever.

      "You have a very fair novice to present, my lady," said he; "but she also has a noble introductress, than whom there is not one whom I am more pleased to see again at court."

      The old lady courtesied.

      "Go and bow to my daughters," whispered the monarch to Jeanne, "and show that you know how to courtesy. I hope you will not be dissatisfied with the way they reply to you."

      His eyes were fixed upon his daughters and compelled them to show politeness, and as Lady Dubarry bowed more lowly than court etiquette prescribed, they were touched, and embraced her with a cordiality which pleased their father.

      Henceforward, the countess' success became a triumph.

      The Duke of Richelieu, as the victor of Mahon, knew how to maneuver; he went and placed himself behind the chair ready for Countess Dubarry, so that he was near her when the presentation was over, without having to battle with the crowd. Lady Mirepoix, knowing how lucky her old friend was in warfare, had imitated him, and drew her stool close to the favorite's chair.

      Supported by the royal love, and the favorable welcome of the royal princesses, Jeanne looked less timidly around among the noblemen, though it was among the ladies that she expected enemies.

      "Ah, my Lord of Richelieu," she said, "I had to come here to find you, for you have let a week pass without calling at Luciennes."

      "I was preparing for the pleasure of seeing you here, certain here to meet!" "I wish you had imparted the certainty to me, for I was none too sure on that head—considering that I am surrounded by plots to thwart me."

      She glared at the old gallant who bore the glance imperturbably.

      "Plots? Goodness! what are you talking about?"

      "In the first place my hairdresser was spirited away."

      "Was he, indeed! what a lucky thing that I sent you a pearl of his craft whom my daughter the Countess of Egmont found somewhere—an artiste most superior to the general run, even to the royal perrukeers, my little Leonard."

      "Leonard," repeated the lady.

      "Yes, a little fellow who does up my Septimanie's tresses, and whom she keeps hidden from all eyes, as a miser does his cash-box. You are not complaining of him, I think, for your ladyship is turned out, as barbers say, marvelously. Curiously enough, the style reminds me of a sketch which the court painter Boucher gave my daughter, for her to be dressed in accord with it, had she not fallen ill. Poor Seppie! But you were talking of plots?"

      "Yes, they kept back my dress."

      "This is odious! Though you are not to be pitied when arrayed in such a choice China silk; with flower work applied; now, had you applied to me in your quandary, as I hope you will in the future, I would have sent you the dress my daughter had made for her presence here—it is so like this, that I could vow it is the same."

      Countess Dubarry seized both his hands, beginning to understand who was the enchanter who had saved her from the embarrassment.

      "I suppose it was in your daughter's coach that I was brought here?" she said.

      "Oh, I should know hers, for it was renovated for this occasion with white satin; but there was no time to paint her blazon upon the panels——"

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