'Except thy heart, gallant Home,' added Dundrennan.
'Viscount, I thank you.'
'And yet, Sir Quentin,' said I, 'rumour avers that the fair Mademoiselle de Chevreuse views you with favour, and we all know that she has eighty thousand francs per annum.'
'Eighty thousand! Ah, Heaven! think of that!' sighed the poor Baronet; 'if she were tenderly inclined, mademoiselle might make me the happiest man in France, and her paternal coat would look very well when quartered with the lion rampant of Home argent armed and langued gules.'
'But think of De Guerchi, whose heart might break, though Chatillon wears her garter.'
'Pshaw! is not one pretty girl as good as another, Viscount?'
'If their purses be of the same weight.'
'Of course, Viscount. Ouf! how mercenary we have become among these Parisians. But beware, gentlemen, we have a couple of abbés here,' said Home, lowering his voice, and to mention my name with that of Mademoiselle de Chevreuse in their hearing might bring upon me the eyes of monseigneur the Archbishop of Paris; and there are certain devilish contrivances in France known as lettres de cachet, which lead to an unpleasant place called the Bastille.'
'Ten devils!' said the Viscount; 'don't think of them.'
'The archbishop was a capital swordsman when he was known simply as the little Abbé Gondi; but I have no wish to measure swords or strength with him now.'