'Oh, do not speak of Bormio; we had there a more dreadful day than I shall ever see until the day of doom! There, gentlemen, the best blood in France was battening in the sun upon the Alps, and dying the waters of the Fredolfo purple. My dearest friend was there mortally wounded by my side in dragging me wounded, as you see, from the press, and expired that night placing his wife in my arms as a sacred trust.'
'A pleasant little arrangement,' said De Brissac gaily; 'I hope the lady was handsome.'
'I do not understand you, monsieur,' replied the young Earl, gravely; 'my faith is for my friend—my sword is at the service of the King.'
'So is mine, my Lord,' said the gay Brissac; 'and moreover my hand and moustache are at the service of all fair ladies of his court. Morbleu! don't let us quarrel over this excellent wine; but tell us, M. Blane, got you much plunder in Alsace?'
'A younger son's share only; but whose stately château is that, on the other side of the water?' I asked, pointing to a large edifice which was visible between the elms.
'That is Trianon, a retreat of the King's. He comes to Versailles when tired of Paris; and goes lo Trianon when tired of Versailles.'
'Of which he will soon tire now,' said a chevalier of the French guards, with a wicked wink.
'You smile, monsieur?' said I.
'Of course.'
'Why?'