“But we shall freeze there.”
“It has been warmed for three days, your grace; and I believe you will find it perfectly comfortable.”
“Very well; but there is a clock striking! Why, it is half-past four!” cried the marshal.
“Yes, your grace; and there is the courier entering the courtyard with my bottle of tokay.”
“May I continue for another twenty years to be served in this manner!” said the marshal, turning again to his looking-glass, while the maître-d’hôtel ran down-stairs.
“Twenty years!” said a laughing voice, interrupting the marshal in his survey of himself; “twenty years, my dear duke! I wish them you; but then I shall be sixty—I shall be very old.”
“You, countess!” cried the marshal, “you are my first arrival, and, mon Dieu! you look as young and charming as ever.”
“Duke, I am frozen.”
“Come into the boudoir, then.”
“Oh! tête-à-tête, marshal?”