There was a subdued acidity in Mrs. Dumaresq’s tone, there was a battle-breathing obstinacy in Mr. Lorimer’s accent that led peaceful Miss Prudence to change the conversation.
“The poor dear Empress,” she said, “how I pity her!”
“Ah, you should have seen her in her splendour. Were you in Paris before the war?”
“You can scarcely expect my sister to remember Paris before the war, my dear Mrs. Dumaresq,” interposed Miss Semaphore frigidly. “It is years ago. Prudence was a mere child.”
Mrs. Dumaresq smiled slightly, and said, “Ah!” In diplomatic circles no one openly expresses disbelief in a statement.
“The dear Empress was such a friend of mine in the old days when we lived there. One day, I remember so well, we had been away for nearly a year. The Empress was standing at a window of the Palace with an aide-de-camp beside her, Comte de la Tour—you remember Comte de la Tour, Angelo?” This to her silent husband, who nodded assent. “The Empress suddenly said to the Comte, ‘Mon cher, who is that charmingly-dressed lady who has just driven past?’ The Comte, dear man, answered, ‘Oh, your Majesty, do you not know? that is Madame Dumaresq!’ The same evening we met at a ball at the Spanish Ambassador’s, and the Empress graciously came up to me. ‘Fancy,’ said she; ‘fancy, my dear Madame Dumaresq, I did not recognise you this morning. It is such an age since you were here; and oh! do permit me to congratulate you on the exquisite costume you wore.’”
The story made a distinct impression. The medical woman at the end of the table, who had an American’s interest in high life, stopped short in a thrilling narrative of an amputation, and listened with all her ears.
“The Empress was a very lovely woman, but I believe she was not very young when she married,” said the elder Miss Semaphore reflectively.
“Oh, dear no! Eight or nine-and-twenty at least. Some people said two-and-thirty.”
“What matter does that make?” interposed the polite Mr. Dumaresq. “A handsome woman is only the age she looks.”