Lauzun continues talking with unaccustomed eagerness. He still takes no notice whatever of Mademoiselle; her royal highness has therefore to wait—yes, actually to wait; a thing she has never done in her life before to an inferior—until he has done talking.
But when he does approach her, he advances with such a noble air, he is in her eyes so handsome, that "To me," she says in her memoirs, "he seemed the very master of the world." Not only does she forgive him, but her whole heart goes out to meet him, and her pulses throb violently—so violently, indeed, she is obliged to wait for a moment ere she can address him.
Lauzun makes her a ceremonious bow, places his hand on his embroidered waistcoat and point-lace jabot, at the place where, if he had one, his heart would have been, casts down his eyes, and awaits her pleasure.
Now, it must be specially borne in mind that Mademoiselle, much against her will, may be now called "an old maid," which condition may reasonably excuse her ardour.
"I flatter myself, Count," she says—blushing at her own backwardness, yet infinitely gratified at the same time by Lauzun's attitude of respectful attention—"I flatter myself you take some interest in me." She looks up, expecting some outburst of protestation at the studied humility of her language. Lauzun, his hand still resting somewhere in the region of where his heart ought to be, bows again, but does not reply. "You are a faithful friend, I know, Monsieur de Lauzun," continues Mademoiselle, confused at his perfect composure, and evolving in her own mind the impossibility of saying all that she desires if he continues silent. "You are, too, a man of the world—" she hesitates. Still Lauzun is mute. "Even his Majesty has the highest respect for your judgment." Again she pauses, flushes crimson, not only on her cheeks, but over her well-formed neck and snowy shoulders. Lauzun makes a slight inclination, but otherwise maintains the same attitude. Mademoiselle's voice, ordinarily rather shrill and loud, is low and persuasive. She looks at him inquiringly, and stretches out both her hands as if to claim his special attention to what she is about to say. Lauzun appears not to observe her anxiety, and fixes his eyes on the ground. "Will you favour me with your advice, Monsieur de Lauzun? I shall esteem it a great kindness." Her tone is almost one of supplication.
"I am deeply sensible of the honour your highness does me," replies Lauzun, disengaging his hand from his waistcoat, and again bowing, this time very stiffly. "On what subject may I venture to advise your royal highness?"
Mademoiselle is conscious she has something very extraordinary to say. She hoped that, seeing her evident perplexity, Lauzun would have helped her. Not a bit. She must trust entirely to herself. Her pride comes to her help. She remembers who she is, draws herself up, steadies her voice, and takes a few steps nearer to where he is standing.
"It is a very delicate subject, Monsieur de Lauzun; nothing but my confidence in your honour and your discretion would otherwise induce me to broach it. But——" and she falters.
Lauzun does not stir, only with the slightest perceptible motion he raises his eyebrows, which Mademoiselle perceives, and, fearing that he is impatient, speaks quickly.
"Do you know—can you tell me——" here she pauses; then observing that he makes a hasty gesture, she forces herself to proceed—"you, Monsieur de Lauzun, who are the confidant of the King, can you tell me whom he purposes me to marry?"