"Ah, merci! he is a most tiresome fellow, Nanon, and odious, too."
"Odious?"
"Yes."
"How, Mademoiselle Therese?"
"I judge from his memoir of himself."
"Explain, mademoiselle."
"He was once in love with a young lady—"
"Once, only—then he is no true romance writer."
"She had black hair, hazel eyes and long lashes, divine little hands and feet—in fact, the counterpart of myself, as the old Abbé de Boissy told me—and was on the point of paying his most solemn and magnificent addresses to her; when, happening to enter her boudoir one day unexpectedly, he found—"
"Not a lover?" exclaimed Nanon, becoming suddenly interested; "not a student or mousquetaire, I hope?"