“Monsieur,” with gay audacity, “I believe your business has something to do with writing letters and keeping accounts. I cannot help you there, so it could make but little difference.”
“But we shall have the winter. What is this I hear about the king’s ball? Or is it a series of balls?”
“Oh, monsieur, that is a delight!” She gave a brief description of it. “And there are four queens. Each chooses a king.”
“I hope you will be a queen. But to have your high honor depend on so great a chance seems rather discouraging.”
“Still, the king may choose you next time. Then it doesn’t always depend upon a bean,” laughing with gay softness.
“What an odd plan! Ma’m’selle, I hope I may be a king. I never thought of such an honor before. And I have chosen my queen already.”
The violins dragged out a last slow note. The fiddlers had not learned to blow it out with a sort of ecstasy. Then André Valbonais came, for the next dance was his and he was very glad. If there was such a thing as an especial belle of the evening, it was Renée de Longueville. These new gay fellows must not crowd him out, he resolved.
There was a promenade after that. Renée fell out of the ranks and insisted upon sitting down a few minutes.
“Go and find Sophie Renaud for me,” she said to André in a dainty tone of command.
“And leave you here alone?”