“And that is?”

“Age.”

“Pooh!  What matter her years when she can carry them like thirty?  What an eye!  What an arm!  And besides, my friends, he is not himself a boy any longer.”

“Ah, but that is another thing.”

“A man’s age is an incident, a woman’s a calamity.”

“Very true.  But a young man consults his eye, and an older man his ear.  Over forty, it is the clever tongue which wins; under it, the pretty face.”

“Ah, you rascal!  Then you have made up your mind that five-and-forty years with tact will hold the field against nine-and-thirty with beauty.  Well, when your lady has won, she will doubtless remember who were the first to pay court to her.”

“But I think that you are wrong, Racine.”

“Well, we shall see.”

“And if you are wrong—­”

“Well, what then?”

“Then it may be a little serious for you.”

“And why?”

“The Marquise de Montespan has a memory.”

“Her influence may soon be nothing more.”

“Do not rely too much upon it, my friend.  When the Fontanges came up from Provence, with her blue eyes and her copper hair, it was in every man’s mouth that Montespan had had her day.  Yet Fontanges is six feet under a church crypt, and the marquise spent two hours with the king last week.  She has won once, and may again.”

“Ah, but this is a very different rival.  This is no slip of a country girl, but the cleverest woman in France.”

“Pshaw, Racine, you know our good master well, or you should, for you seem to have been at his elbow since the days of the Fronde.  Is he a man, think you, to be amused forever by sermons, or to spend his days at the feet of a lady of that age, watching her at her tapestry-work, and fondling her poodle, when all the fairest faces and brightest eyes of France are as thick in his salons as the tulips in a Dutch flower-bed?  No, no, it will be the Montespan, or if not she, some younger beauty.”

“My dear Boileau, I say again that her sun is setting.  Have you not heard the news?”

“Not a word.”

“Her brother, Monsieur de Vivonne, has been refused the entre.”

“Impossible!”

“But it is a fact.”

“And when?”

“This very morning.”

“From whom had you it?”

“From De Catinat, the captain of the guard.  He had his orders to bar the way to him.”

“Ha! then the king does indeed mean mischief.  That is why his brow is so cloudy this morning, then.  By my faith, if the marquise has the spirit with which folk credit her, he may find that it was easier to win her than to slight her.”

“Ay; the Mortemarts are no easy race to handle.”

“Well, heaven send him a safe way out of it!  But who is this gentleman?  His face is somewhat grimmer than those to which the court is accustomed.  Ha! the king catches sight of him, and Louvois beckons to him to advance.  By my faith, he is one who would be more at his ease in a tent than under a painted ceiling.”