The Marquise could not help people making fools of themselves, she said; and perhaps did not wish to help it. She too had dreamed her dream, and all was over. The sovereignty of beauty can at no time be disagreeable, least of all when the bloom begins to fade, and the empire grows day by day more precarious. If young Chateau-Guerrand chose to be as absurd as his uncle, let him singe his wings, or his wig, or any part of his attire he pleased. She was not going to put her lamp out because the cockchafer is a blunderer, and the moth a suicide.
He was a good-looking young gentleman enough, and in Justine’s opinion seemed only the more attractive from the air of thorough coxcombry with which his whole deportment, person, and conversation were imbued. He had quarrelled with his uncle, the Prince-Marshal, on the score of that relative’s undutiful conduct. The veteran had paid the young soldier’s debts twice, and lo! the third time he remonstrated. His nephew, under pretext of an old wound disabling the sword-arm, obtained permission to retire from the army, thinking thus to annoy his uncle, and accepted an appointment as attaché to the French embassy at the Court of St. James’s, for which he was specially unfitted both by nature and education.
“You arrived, madame, but yesterday,” said he, bowing over the hand extended to him, with an affectation of extreme devotion. “I learned it this morning, and behold I fly here on the instant, to place myself, my chief, and all the resources of my country, at the disposition of madame.”
“Of course,” she answered, smiling; “but in the meantime, understand me, I neither want yourself, however charming, nor your chief, however discreet, nor the resources of your country and mine, however powerful. I am here on private affairs, and till they are concluded I shall have no leisure to enter society. What I ask of your devotion now is, to sit down in that chair, and tell me the news, while I finish my chocolate in peace.”
He obeyed delighted—evidently, she was rejoiced to meet him here, so unexpectedly, and could not conceal her gratification. He was treated like an intimate friend, an established favourite—Justine had retired. The Marquise loitered over her chocolate. She looked well, wonderfully handsome for her age, and she had never appeared so kind. “Ah, rogue!” thought this enviable youth, apostrophising the person he most admired in the world, “must it always be so? mothers and daughters, maids, wives, and widows.—No escape, parbleu, and no mercy. What is it about you, my boy, that thus prostrates every creature in a petticoat before the feet of Casimir de Chateau-Guerrand? Is it looks, is it manners, is it intellect? Faith, I think it must be a happy mixture of them all!”
“Well!” said the Marquise with one of her victorious glances, “I am not very patient, you know that of old. Quick! out with the news, you who have the knack of telling it so well.”
He glanced in an opposite mirror, and looked as fascinating as he could.
“It goes no further, madame, of course; and indeed I would trust you with my head, as I have long since trusted you with my heart.” An impatient gesture of his listener somewhat discomfited him, but he proceeded, nevertheless, in a tone of ineffable self-satisfaction.
“We are behind the scenes, you know, we diplomatists, and see the players before the wigs are adjusted or the paint laid on. Such actors! madame, and oh! such actresses! the old Court is a comedy to which no one pays attention. The young Court is a farce played with a tragic solemnity. Even Mrs. Bellenden has thrown up her part. There is no gooseberry bush now behind which the heir-apparent fills his basket. Some say that none is necessary, but Mrs. Howard still dresses the Princess, and—”