“I suppose I ought not to ask you what you mean, Fanchette.”
“Mademoiselle has not heard of the Chevalier Tiretta?”
“No.”
“Such a voice, your Highness, and such a man! He is a gift from the archduke to his Excellency, and has been ravishing the Courts of Parma with his music these days past. They say——”
“Well?”
“I hardly like to repeat.”
“Do not, then.”
“That somebody in love has made this nightingale his avant-coureur to overture his passion.”
“Do they say, girl? I think, indeed, your idle fancy is the only gossip.”
Fanchette’s head was seen in the mirror to nod itself, and her strait lips to smile.