“Ah!” said Calvert, politely, “is she married?”

“What a cold-blooded creature!” said Beaufort, laughing.  “Let me tell you, Calvert, the marriage which you take so nonchalantly was the sensation of Paris.  It was the talk of the town for weeks, and the strangest marriage—­if marriage it can be called—­ever heard of.  ’Tis now three years since Mademoiselle Adrienne d’Azay finished her studies at the Couvent de Marmoutier (’tis an old abbaye on the banks of the Loire, Calvert, near Azay-le-Roi, the chateau of the d’Azay family) and came to dazzle all Paris under the chaperonage of her great aunt, the old Duchesse d’Azay.  As you have seen her portrait—­and, I dare say, remember its smallest detail—­I will spare you the recital of those charms which captivated half the young gentlemen of our world on her first appearance at court.  She became the rage, and, before six months had passed, Madame d’Azay had arranged a marriage with the rich old St. Andre.  She would sell her own soul for riches, Calvert; judge, therefore, how willingly she would sell her niece’s soul.”  He paused an instant and tapped impatiently on the table for another glass of cognac.

“It was a great match, I suppose,” hazarded Calvert.

“Oh, yes; Monsieur de St. Andre was a man high in the confidence of both the King and Queen—­and let me tell thee, ’tis no easy matter to please both the King and Queen—­and a man of rank and fortune.  ’Tis safe to say the Duchess was most concerned as to his fortune, which was enormous.  He was a trifle old, however, for Mademoiselle d’Azay, he being near sixty-five, and she but eighteen.”

“Gracious Heaven!” ejaculated Calvert.  “What a cruel wrong to so young a creature!  What a marriage!”

“Upon my word, I believe only the recital of wrong has power to stir that cold American blood of thine,” said Beaufort, laughing again.  “But do not excite yourself too much.  After all ’twas scarcely a marriage, for, within an hour after the ceremony, the elderly bridegroom was alone in his travelling coach on his way to Madrid, sent thither at the instant and urgent command of the King on important private business connected with the Family Compact.  From that journey he never returned alive, being attacked with a fatal fluxion of the lungs at a great public banquet given in his honor by Count Florida Blanca.  His body was brought back to France, and his soi-disant widow mourned him decorously for a year.  Since then she has been the gayest, as she is the fairest, creature in the great world of Paris.”

“Is she, indeed, so beautiful?” asked Calvert, indifferently.