“With all the good-will in the world,” said his grace. “Another moth to the flame,” he laughed. “Another star to the constellation. Be careful, Sir Frenchman. ’Tis not a lady pleased with frivolity.”
“Monsieur, behold,” said Mornay, piously, “I am as solemn as a judge—as virtuous as—ma foi! as virtuous as the she-dragon duenna of the Queen.”
“Nor will that please her better,” said Captain Cornbury, who had come up at this moment. “I’ faith, Mornay, she’s most difficult—as full of whims as the multiplication table. At present she spends both her time and her fortune—where d’ye suppose, Monsieur Mornay? In the fire region and the prisons. Strange tastes for the heiress of half a province in France and the whole of the fortune of the Bresacs.”
“Ma foi! Une sérieuse!”
“Ochone! she’s saucy enough—with a bit of a temper, too, they say.”
“But the prisons?”
“Are but her trade to-day—perhaps to-morrow—that’s all. What do ye think? She has but just promised the coranto and an hour alone in the garden to the man who brings her Nick Rawlings’ pardon from the King.”
“The cutpurse?”
“The very same. She says ’tis an old man and ill fit to die upon the scaffold.”
“Pardieu!” said Mornay, casting a swift glance at her train of followers. “She’s more cruel to her lovers than to her poor.”