And away they were carried in opposite directions.
Richelieu was going to Baron Taverney’s residence in Coq-Heron Street.
The baron was seated before a dying fire, lecturing Nicole, or rather, chucking her under her pretty chin.
“But I am dying of weariness here, master,” she protested with wanton swinging of her hips in protest, “it was promised me that I should go to the palace with my mistress.”
It was at this point that the old rake fondled her, no doubt to cheer her up.
“Here I am between four ugly walls,” she went on wailing her fate: “no society—not enough air to breathe. But at Trianon, I should have people around me, and see luxury—stare and be stared at.”
“Fie, little Nicole!”
“Oh, I am only a woman like the rest of us.”
“No, you are more tempting than the rest,” said the old reprobate. “I only wish I were younger and rich again for your sake.”
At this juncture the door-bell rang and startled the master and maid.