“Milord,” answered Chaulieu, an old man who, though considerably past seventy, was animated, in appearance and manner, with a vivacity and life that would have done honour to a youth,—“Milord, it was beautifully said by the Emperor Julian that Justice retained the Graces in her vestibule. I see, now, that he should have substituted the word Wisdom for that of Justice.”
“Come,” cried Anthony Hamilton, “this will never do: compliments are the dullest things imaginable. For Heaven’s sake, let us leave panegyric to blockheads, and say something bitter to one another, or we shall die of ennui.”
“Right,” said Boulainvilliers; “let us pick out some poor devil to begin with. Absent or present?—Decide which.”
“Oh, absent,” cried Chaulieu, “‘tis a thousand times more piquant to slander than to rally! Let us commence with his Majesty: Count Devereux, have you seen Madame Maintenon and her devout infant since your arrival?”
“No! the priest must be petitioned before the miracle is made public.”
“What!” cried Chaulieu, “would you insinuate that his Majesty’s piety is really nothing less than a miracle?”
“Impossible!” said Boulainvilliers, gravely,—“piety is as natural to kings as flattery to their courtiers: are we not told that they are made in God’s own image?”
“If that were true,” said Count Hamilton, somewhat profanely,—“if that were true, I should no longer deny the impossibility of Atheism!”
“Fie, Count Hamilton,” said an old gentleman, in whom I recognized the great Huet, “fie: wit should beware how it uses wings; its province is earth, not Heaven.”
“Nobody can better tell what wit is not than the learned Abbe Huet!” answered Hamilton, with a mock air of respect.