“Fie, Marquis!” she returned. “These other people are dull, while you are charmingly wicked.”
“You flatter me,” he cackled, detaining her, to the impatience of the thick-set man who was waiting to escort the young woman back to town. “But do you notice the gentleman over there with the medals?”
“The distinguished-looking man?” asked Susan.
“Yes; that is the Count de Propriac. It was he who was one of the agents of Louis Philippe in the Spanish double marriage plot. It was arranged the queen should marry her cousin, and her sister the son of Louis Philippe. The queen and her cousin were not expected to have children––but had them, to spite us all, and Louis Philippe’s projects for the throne of Spain failed disastrously.”
“How inconsiderate of the queen! Good afternoon, marquis! I have been vastly entertained.”
“And I”––kissing her hand––“enamored!” Then, chuckling: “A week ago my stupid doctors had me laid out in funereal dignity, and now I am making love to a fine woman. Pretty pouting lips!”––tapping her chin playfully––“Like rose-buds! Happy the lover who shall gather the dew! But we meet again, Mistress Susan?”
“That will depend upon you, marquis,” answered Susan, coquettishly, as a thought flashed through her mind that it would not be unpleasant to be called “Marquise,” or “Marchioness”––she did not quite know which would be the proper title. It was nearly vesper-time with the old nobleman; he seemed but a procrastinating presence in the evening of mortal life; a chateau and carriage––
“Then we will meet again,” said the marquis, interrupting these new-born ambitions.
“In that case you would soon get tired of me,” laughed Susan.