The princess laughed merrily.
“A pretty compliment, upon my word,” she cried. “Come, Louise, are you not going to give M. de Brancas your hand to kiss as a reward?”
“M. de Brancas is too fond of kissing hands,” she retorted, without looking at me. “Let him find others, as he has doubtless already done.”
Mlle. de Valois glanced at my lugubrious face and burst into another peal of laughter.
“It is too amusing,” she cried. “But first, monsieur, let me introduce you to this other lady, concerning whom your heart tells you nothing,—my sister, Mlle. de Chartres.”
I bowed to the lady, who was apparently some years older than Mlle. de Valois, and who smiled at me graciously. The princess was still laughing.
“Oh, come, M. de Brancas,” she said, “put off that melancholy air. You should rejoice rather than despair, for, do you know, Louise is doing you the honor of being jealous of you. This afternoon we were out driving, and in the Rue St. Honoré who should we see but M. de Brancas wading across the street and with a young and pretty woman held very affectionately in his arms. It made my blood leap and I was for cheering you from the carriage window, but Louise held me back, and in a moment you were gone. I thought it fine, but she said it was disgraceful, and I nearly died with laughing at her indignant face.”
“Oh, this is too much!” cried Mlle. Dacour, starting from her seat. “I will not remain here to be insulted in this manner.”
“Oh, do not go, mademoiselle!” I implored.
“Yes, stay, Louise,” said the princess. “I promise not to tease you further. Besides,” she added, mischievously, “M. de Brancas doubtless has an explanation to offer, and perhaps he was not holding her so affectionately as I imagined.”