“The most difficult of virtues!” answered the Princesse, lightly tapping out a little tune with the jewelled handle of her riding whip on the arm of her chair, “That is why I like horses and dogs so much—­they are always honest.  And for that reason I am now inclined to like Abbe Vergniaud whom I never liked before.  He has turned honest!  To-day indeed he has been as straightforward as if he were not a man at all!—­and I admire him for it.  He and his son will be my guests at the Chateau D’Agramont.”

“What a very strange woman you are!” said Fontenelle, with a certain languid admiration beginning to glimmer in his eyes, “You always do things that nobody else would dare do—­and yet . . . no lovers!”

She turned herself swiftly round and surveyed him with a bright scorn that swept him as with a lightning flash from head to heel.

“Lovers!  Who would be bored by them!  Such delightful company!  So unselfish in their demands—­so tender and careful of a woman’s feelings!  Pouf!  Cher ami!—­you forget!  I was the wife of the late Prince D’Agramont!”

“That explains a great many of your moods certainly,” said the Marquis smiling.

“Does it not?  Le beau Louis!—­romantic Louis!—­poet Louis!—­musician Louis!—­Louis, who talked pretty philosophies by the hour,—­Louis who looked so beautiful by moonlight,—­who seemed fastidious and refined to a degree that was almost ethereal!—­Louis who swore, with passion flashing in his eyes, that I was the centre of the universe to him, and that no other woman had ever occupied, would ever occupy, or should ever occupy his thoughts!—­yes, he was an ideal lover and husband indeed!” said the Princesse smiling coldly, “I gave him all my life and love, till one day, when I found I was sharing his caresses with my plumpest dairymaid, who called him “Her Louis”!  Then I thought it was time to put an end to romance.  Tiens!” and she gave a little shrug and sigh, “It is sad to think he died of over-eating.”

The Marquis laughed.

“You are incorrigible, belle Loyse!” he said, “You should write these things, not speak them.”

“Really!  And do I not write them?  Yes, you know I do, and that you envy me my skill.  The Figaro is indebted to me for many admirable essays.  At the same time I do not give you permission to call me Loyse.”

“Forgive me!” and the Marquis folded his hands with an air of mock penitence.

“Perhaps I will, presently,” and she laughed, “But meanwhile I want you to do something for me.”

“Toujours a votre service, madame!” and Fontenelle bowed profoundly.

“How theatrical you look!  You are alarmingly like Miraudin;—­and one must draw the line at Miraudin!  This is a day of truth according to the Abbe Vergniaud; how dare you say you are at my service when you do not mean it?”

“Princesse, I protest . . .”

“Oh, protest as much as you like,—­on the way to Rome!”