“Oh, as to that—­in money, maybe, but as to birth—­”

“It is indisputable!  You are both dukes by patent.”

“We in 1663.”

“And the Courtalin—­”

“In 1666 only.”

“Agreed.”

“Well, then?”

“Oh, just wait!  I am posted on the question; mamma studied it thoroughly when things looked, three months ago, as if I should be Duchess of Courtalin.  One morning mamma went to the archives with an old friend of hers, a great historian, who is a member of the Institute.  You date from 1663, and the Courtalin from 1666; that is correct.  But Louis XIV., in 1672, by a special edict, gave the precedence to the Courtalins; and you have not, I suppose, any idea of disputing what Louis XIV. thought best to do.  Now, Aunt Louise, can he?”

“Certainly not.”

“But Saint Simon—­”

“Oh, let us leave Saint Simon alone; he is prejudice and inaccuracy itself!  I know he is on your side, but that doesn’t count; but I will, to be agreeable to you, acknowledge that you are better looking and taller than M. de Courtalin—­”

“But—­”

“Oh, my dear, I begin to see!  You are dying for me to tell you that.  Well, yes, you are a fairly handsome man; but that is only a very perishable advantage, and you have too much respect for conventionalities to wish to make that equal to the decree of Louis XIV.  However, I loved you—­I loved you faithfully, tenderly, fondly, stupidly; yes, stupidly, for when I had come out in society, the year before, in April, 1889, at Mme. de Fresnes’s ball, when I had allowed my poor, little, thin shoulders to be seen for the first time (I must have been about seventeen), I noticed that the young marriageable men in our set (they are all quoted, noted, and labelled) drew away from me with strange, respectful deference.  I appeared to be of no importance or interest, in spite of my name, my dowry, and my eyes.  You see, I had singed myself.  I had so ridiculously advertised my passion for you that I no longer belonged to myself; I was considered as belonging to you.  As soon as I had put on my first long dress, which gave me at once the right to think of marriage and speak of love, I had told all my friends that I loved, and would never love or marry any one but you—­you or the convent.  Yes, I had come to that!  My friends had told their brothers and cousins, who had repeated it to you (just what I wanted), but it put me out of the race.  Dare to say, sir, that it is not all true, strictly true!”

“I am saying nothing—?”

“Because you are overcome, crushed by the evidence.  You say nothing now, but what did you say last year?  Last year!  When I think that we could have been married since last year!  A year, a whole year lost!  And it was so long, and it could have been so short!  Well, he was there, at the Fresnes’ ball.  He condescended to do me the honor of dancing three times with me.  I came home intoxicated,