“Mon cher Duc” said she, smiling, “I have such a store of grievances to lay at your door. The essence of violets is not violets, but verbena.”
“Charming Comtesse, I had it direct from Pierrot's.”
“Pierrot is a traitor, then, that's all; and where's Ida's Arab? is he to be here to-day, or to-morrow? When are we to see him?”
“Why, I only wrote to the Emir on Tuesday last.”
“Mais à quoi bon l'Emir if he can't do impossibilities? Surely the very thought of him brings up the Arabian Nights and the Calif Haroun. By the way, thank you for the poignard. It is true Damascus, is it not?”
“Of course. I 'd not have dared—”
“To be sure not. I told the Archduchess it was. I wore it in my Turkish dress on Wednesday, and you, false man, would n't come to admire me!”
“You know what a sad day was that for me, madam,” said he, solemnly. “It was the anniversary of her fate who was your only rival in beauty, as she had no rival in undeserved misfortunes.”
“Pauvre Reine!” sighed the Countess, and held her bouquet to her face.
“What great mass of papers is that you have there, Duke?” resumed she. “Can it be a journal?”