"No, my dear marshal, it is because the monarchy is older."
All who heard shuddered at this voice behind the duke. He turned and saw an elderly gentleman, stylish in appearance, who laid his hand on his shoulder as he smiled misanthropically.
"Gads my life! it is Baron Taverney. Countess," added the duke, "here is one of my oldest friends, for whom I beg your kindness—Baron Taverney of Redcastle."
"The father of that pair," said Jean and Jeanne to themselves, as they bowed in salutation.
"My lords and gentlemen," shouted the grand master of ceremonies, "to your places in the coaches."
The two aged nobles bowed to the favorite and her brother, and went into the same vehicle, glad to be united after long absence.
"What do you say to that? I do not like the old fellow a whit better than the cubs," said Jean Dubarry.
"What a pity that the little imp, Gilbert, ran away. As he was brought up in their house, he might furnish particulars about the family," said the countess.
The dialogue was broken off by the movement of all the carriages.
After a night at Compiegne, the united courts—the sundown of one era, the sunburst of another—swept intermingled on to Paris, that gulf which was to swallow up the whole of them.