The duke admired the elegant daintiness which made the prim rooms not a palace but a fane. He and the baron took armchairs and the young hostess sat on a folding-chair, with one elbow on her harpsichord.
“Young lady,” began the marshal, “I bring you from his Majesty all the compliments which your enchanting voice and consummate musicianly skill won from the auditors yesterday. His Majesty feared to make jealous folk cry out if he praised you too publicly. So he charged me to express the pleasure you caused him.”
All blushes, the girl was so lovely that the marshal continued as though he were speaking for himself.
“The King affirmed that he had never seen any person in the court who so bountifully united gifts of the mind with those of the physique.”
“You forget the qualities of the heart, my lord; Andrea is the best of daughters,” added the baron, gushingly.
For a space the marshal feared that the old rogue was about to weep. Full of admiration for this effort of paternal sensitiveness, he exclaimed:
“The heart—Alas! you are the sole judge of what tenderness may be enclosed in that heart. Were I in my twenty-fifth year, I would lay my life and fortune at her feet.”
As Andrea did not yet know how to meet the courtier’ fulsome compliments, all the duke earned was a murmur.
“The King wishes to be allowed a testimonial of his satisfaction, and he charges your father, the baron, to transmit it to you. What am I to answer his Majesty on your behalf?”
“Your grace is to assure his Majesty of my entire gratitude,” replied Andrea who saw in the exaggeration only the respect of a subject to the sovereign. “Tell the King that I am overwhelmed with kindness at being thought of, and that I am unworthy the attention of so mighty a monarch.”