It was now for Count Hamilton to take up the ball of satire; he was not a whit more merciful than the kind Madame de Cornuel. “The Prince,” said he, “has so exquisite an awkwardness that, whenever the King hears a noise, and inquires the cause, the invariable answer is that ‘the Prince of Conti has just tumbled down’! But, tell me, what do you think of Madame d’Aumont? She is in the English headdress, and looks triste a la mort.”
“She is rather pretty, to my taste.”
“Yes,” cried Madame de Cornuel, interrupting the gentle Antoine (it did one’s heart good to see how strenuously each of them tried to talk more scandal than the other), “yes, she is thought very pretty; but I think her very like a fricandeau,—white, soft, and insipid. She is always in tears,” added the good-natured Cornuel, “after her prayers, both at morning and evening. I asked why; and she answered, pretty simpleton, that she was always forced to pray to be made good, and she feared Heaven would take her at her word! However, she has many worshippers, and they call her the evening star.”
“They should rather call her the Hyades!” said Hamilton, “if it be true that she sheds tears every morning and night, and her rising and setting are thus always attended by rain.”
“Bravo, Count Antoine! she shall be so called in future,” said Madame de Cornuel. “But now, Monsieur Devereux, turn your eyes to that hideous old woman.”
“What! the Duchesse d’Orleans?”
“The same. She is in full dress to-night; but in the daytime you generally see her in a riding habit and a man’s wig; she is—”
“Hist!” interrupted Hamilton; “do you not tremble to think what she would do if she overheard you? she is such a terrible creature at fighting! You have no conception, Count, what an arm she has. She knows her ugliness, and laughs at it, as all the rest of the world does. The King took her hand one day, and said smiling, ‘What could Nature have meant when she gave this hand to a German princess instead of a Dutch peasant?’ ‘Sire,’ said the Duchesse, very gravely, ‘Nature gave this hand to a German princess for the purpose of boxing the ears of her ladies in waiting!’”
“Ha! ha! ha!” said Madame de Cornuel, laughing; “one is never at a loss for jokes upon a woman who eats salade au lard, and declares that, whenever she is unhappy, her only consolation is ham and sausages! Her son treats her with the greatest respect, and consults her in all his amours, for which she professes the greatest horror, and which she retails to her correspondents all over the world, in letters as long as her pedigree. But you are looking at her son, is he not of a good mien?”
“Yes, pretty well; but does not exhibit to advantage by the side of Lord Bolingbroke, with whom he is now talking. Pray, who is the third personage that has just joined them?”