“Monsieur Scarron, do me the honor,” said Raoul, blushing, “to tell me the name of that young lady whose opinion seems so different from that of others of the company.”
“Ah! my young vicomte,” replied Scarron, “I suppose you wish to propose to her an alliance offensive and defensive.”
Raoul blushed again.
“You asked the name of that young lady. She is called the fair Indian.”
“Excuse me, sir,” returned Raoul, blushing still more deeply, “I know no more than I did before. Alas! I am from the country.”
“Which means that you know very little about the nonsense which here flows down our streets. So much the better, young man! so much the better! Don’t try to understand it—you will only lose your time.”
“You forgive me, then, sir,” said Raoul, “and you will deign to tell me who is the person that you call the young Indian?”
“Certainly; one of the most charming persons that lives—Mademoiselle Frances d’Aubigne.”
“Does she belong to the family of the celebrated Agrippa, the friend of Henry IV.?”
“His granddaughter. She comes from Martinique, so I call her the beautiful Indian.”