"My dear girl, we women are such heathens that we admit every kind of sect, and recognize many gods."
"In one, eh?"
"Yes," replied the duchess, her eyes sparkling; "he who is called Eros, Cupido, Amor. He who has a quiver on his back, wings on his shoulders, and a fillet over his eyes. Mordi, vive la dévotion!"
"You have a peculiar method of praying; you throw stones on the heads of Huguenots."
"Let us do our duty and let people talk. Ah, Marguerite! how the finest ideas, the noblest actions, are spoilt in passing through the mouths of the vulgar!"
"The vulgar!—why, it was my brother Charles who congratulated you on your exploits, wasn't it?"
"Your brother Charles is a mighty hunter blowing the horn all day, and that makes him very thin. I reject his compliments; besides, I gave him his answer—didn't you hear what I said?"
"No; you spoke so low."
"So much the better. I shall have more news to tell you. Now, then, finish your story, Marguerite."
"I was going to say—to say"—